


With A Certain Charm

by Moonlitdark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Denial of Feelings, Elections, First Time, Hotels, Light Angst, M/M, Minister for Magic Election
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28551876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlitdark/pseuds/Moonlitdark
Summary: The expression that Draco had privately termed Potter’s Official Smile bloomed across Potter’s features. Reassuring and persuasive, the effortless smile created the impression that there was nothing which Potter could not achieve. And although Draco saw enough of Potter’s frequent uncertainty to realise this confidence was a façade, Draco wasn’t convinced that he was entirely immune to its effects.A story about how Draco is content with a busy life running his beloved hotel and doesn't understand why Potter has suddenly chosen to stay there. Draco also doesn't understand why Potter is participating in the election to choose the next Minister for Magic if Potter doesn't actually want to be Minister. And Draco doesn't think it's a very good idea to become involved with Potter, no matter how attractive he might be.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted a long time ago on Livejournal. So if it seems familiar, you've probably read it before, but this version has a few edits.

The moment Potter arrived at Pear Tree Lodge, Draco had known it was going to be a bad day.

As Potter approached the reception desk, Draco cordially smiled and discreetly ensured that his wand was within easy reach in the sleeve of his robe. He wondered why he had not seen a reservation made under Potter’s name. If Draco had spotted a room booked for this man, he would have highlighted the entry with a red, glowing warning sign. And possibly closed the hotel.

For a moment Potter stood silent, blinking in obvious surprise as he regarded Draco in place behind the desk. The silence was handy; it gave Draco the opportunity to observe Potter’s appearance. Potter was dressed in what Draco thought might once have been a fine set of black robes. Now, it was a sopping mess of sodden fabric, accented by smudges of what looked like mud around the hem. Potter’s hair was a spiky mass of wet tangled strands which dripped water onto his shoulders. And, Draco noticed with displeasure, Potter was soaking a round circle of water into the Victorian rug. In short, Potter was dishevelled and dirty and looked like a man who had just gone three rounds with a rabid dragon. And lost. If this was the nation’s prospective new Minister for Magic, Draco despaired for the fate of them all.

Waiting for Potter to speak first was proving to be a fruitless venture, so after a long minute of mutually tense staring, Draco attempted an opening line. “What do you want?”

Owner or not, his hotel staff would have severely berated him for his lack of manners, even to an unwelcome guest. However, it was the safest option Draco could think of. It was straight to the point, not friendly, but not an outright insult. Not yet.

“Do you have a vacant room?” Potter asked.

Why Potter would _want_ a room in Draco’s hotel was an intriguing mystery so, despite his misgivings, Draco nodded and reached to pluck a room key from the wall behind him.

“Room thirteen,” Draco announced with a smirk. “Should be suitable for your needs.” The room contained a powerful shower, deep bath and an abundance of luxurious cleansing products which should surely be of use to someone with such hygiene issues. Draco held out the key, quoted a vastly inflated rate for the room and waited for Potter’s reaction.

To Draco’s disappointment, Potter accepted the key without preamble. “That’s fine, I’ll take it.” 

Nodding, Draco wrote Potter’s name in the register, resisting the impulse to add a descriptive note in the margin. With his forefinger, Draco pushed a small card across the polished surface of the desk followed by a quill. “Please enter your address and payment details.” Draco felt he was doing considerably better at politeness now that the initial shock had faded a little. “And perhaps the use of a drying charm might be of some advantage?”

It was Potter’s turn to nod as he grasped the quill and rapidly scratched details onto the card before pushing it back towards Draco. A wave of Potter’s wand efficiently dried his clothes, but the wrinkles were probably beyond help.

“Let me escort you to your room,” Draco offered, stepping out from behind the desk. A paying customer was important, no matter how much Draco despised him. And Draco suspected that Potter could pay a lot.

Together they walked in silence along softly lit corridors until they reached their destination. Draco had selected a suite at the back of the property, far from the noise of the street and far from Draco’s own quarters. He unlocked the polished wooden door, swung it open and moved to the side to allow Potter to enter, following a few steps behind to ensure that his guest was satisfied with the accommodation.

“This is nice,” commented Potter, pivoting slowly in the centre of the main bedroom. Through the left door was a spacious bathroom, to the right a small but luxurious lounge which overlooked the garden.

Draco bristled. It was much more than ‘nice’. The room was a beautifully decorated example of comfortable hospitality. Pear Tree Lodge was not a huge or exclusive establishment but Draco was proud of it, nonetheless. With only twenty rooms the building was large for a house, small for a hotel, but a thoroughly quality establishment. Draco had been tempted to change the building’s name to something less twee, but an odd sense of loyalty to his former employer prevented him eliciting any change.

“I’m pleased it is to your liking,” replied Draco, swallowing the invective which came to mind. “All amenities are well-stocked but if there is anything additional which you require, use either the Floo or the telephone to call reception. The restaurant is open until 10:30pm, but room service is available twenty-four hours. Enjoy your stay.”

“You have a telephone?” Potter asked, eyeing the nightstand where the telephone was situated.

Muggle technology was surely not the most impressive detail of the room.

“We have many, Potter. It’s a convenient system.”

Potter plonked himself down onto a nearby cushioned chair with a distinct lack of ceremony, but a second later seemed to remember where he was and rapidly shuffled to amend his sitting position to one which was notably more formal. Draco suppressed his smirk. 

It occurred to Draco that Potter seemed more subdued than he remembered, but he presumed it was due to Potter’s earlier impromptu dragon fighting and started to walk towards the door.

“Malfoy,” Potter mumbled just before Draco made it to freedom. “Thanks.”

“No need for thanks. It’s merely good customer service. Something we pride ourselves on within this hotel. Good night,” Draco said with what he hoped was an amiable smile as he pulled the door closed behind him.

Lost in thought about the random appearance of his newest guest, Draco wandered back to reception where he was intercepted by a beaming blonde female who was fairly bouncing on her heels as she asked, “Is it true that Harry Potter just checked in?”

“Check the register, Lucy. Is his name there?”

Lucy blushed. “Yes.”

“Then, there’s your answer. Mystery solved.” Draco manoeuvred back into position behind the desk to scan the guests’ requests for the following morning: several standing orders for issues of the _Daily Prophet_ , various room service pre-orders and important morning alarm calls. There was nothing particularly taxing. Jonathan, the night porter, could deal with any additional requests before morning and Samantha, the day receptionist, would smoothly oversee the morning tasks. The hotel wasn’t operating at full capacity this evening but since only three rooms remained unoccupied, Draco was pleased that business was blooming.

Lucy was loitering. “Don’t you have tables to wait?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied and strode happily in the direction of the restaurant.

Smiling, Draco watched her go. Lucy was a cheerful addition to the hotel. She had a tendency to be almost childishly excitable on occasion, but she was a hard worker with whom guests could build a happy rapport. Confident in the abilities of his staff, Draco made his way down a narrow staircase to his personal suite. The hour was late and he was sleepy from a busy day, but the location of the room ensured that he would be within easy reach if he was needed.

…………

After too much time spent pondering his unexpected guest, Draco had a restless night but he followed his usual routine: he rose early to shower, dress and admit a waiter with his breakfast before climbing the stairs back to the main area of the hotel to greet both staff and guests and commence his work day.

The first thing which struck Draco as he approached the desk was that Samantha looked considerably harassed. Her normally pallid complexion was marred with a high blush on each cheek, and her usual grace was ruined by an intermittent wide sweeping gesture of her left arm which was a clear imploration for the man on the opposite side of the desk to leave. But the man was standing his ground, leaning over the desk towards Samantha in an intimidating manner that Draco was not going to tolerate.  
As Draco neared, he saw a writing pad grasped in the man’s hand and it became abruptly clear what this man was: a journalist. Draco paused to wonder why a newspaper journalist would be harassing his receptionist, but the answer was suddenly clear. Potter.

Draco reached his destination quickly, much to Samantha’s relief judging by the slight slump of her shoulders when Draco stopped in front of the desk.

“Welcome to Pear Tree Lodge,” greeted Draco with a smile and a stance which he knew radiated just the right amount of courteous disdain. With a voice low enough to be a growl, but mild enough to be considered polite, he continued, “How may I help you?”

“I need to speak with the owner.”

“You’re speaking to him. How can I assist?”

“Is Harry Potter staying at this hotel?”

“Unfortunately, data protection does not allow me to discuss any information pertaining to guests.”

The reporter’s eyebrow perked up, displaying interest. “So, he _is_ here?”

“If you review my statement, I think you’ll find that I did not say that. I also think you should leave,” Draco suggested in an attempt to curtail further extraneous dialogue with a member of the press. “I’m truly regretful that I couldn’t be of assistance to you,” he lied, gesturing towards the main door which led onto the street. He may not like Potter, but all guests were afforded the same rights.

“If I could just have a few moments of your time to ask some qu -”

“I really shouldn’t like to trouble security.”

On perfect cue, a man who Draco employed as a waiter appeared by his side. The man was burly enough to intimidate most troublemakers. It was a useful charm; whenever Draco uttered the word ‘security’, the waiter’s wand would vibrate, alerting him to Draco’s call and a tracking charm allowed the waiter to Apparate directly to Draco. Not that Draco was incapable of dealing with unpleasant situations unassisted, but he felt that it leant a more civilised tone to his role if he was not both the owner and the muscle. Wisely, the reporter surveyed the waiter, seemed to consider his chances as poor and retreated without further comment. 

The incident was unsettling enough to encourage Draco to intercept when Potter emerged into the foyer a short while later, looking remarkably more presentable in clean black robes.

“Potter, a moment of your time,” Draco said, steering Potter gently by the elbow towards his office. Surprisingly, Potter allowed himself to be guided without protest.

Draco let Potter seat himself comfortably on the sofa situated by the wall before Draco settled into a chair which was strategically angled to face it. Although anxious for information, Draco was aware that a relaxed setting was more likely to yield results.

“Did you have a comfortable evening?” Draco enquired.

“Yes, thanks. It’s a lovely room.”

“May I ask how long you intend to stay in this establishment?” 

Potter fidgeted but answered quickly. “Umm… for a few weeks, I think. If that’s possible?”

Unfortunately, it was. And Draco’s devotion to his business did not allow him to turf paying guests out, even if they were despised schoolmates.

“Yes, that can be arranged. But since you intend to extend your stay here, I feel that I should direct a query to you. Are you aware why a member of the press would have been asking my receptionist for information regarding yourself?”

Potter cringed and squirmed in his seat. “Oh. Sorry about that. I didn’t think they’d realise where I was.”

“Is there likely to be a repeat occurrence of the incident?”

“Hopefully not.”

“I would appreciate it if you could take steps to ensure that my staff are not harassed similarly again.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

“Malfoy?” Potter said, halting Draco as he started to rise from the seat. “Maybe I should tell you why I’m here.”

“It’s not necessary.”

Potter hissed in a breath which rattled at the back of his throat and told Draco anyway. “I’ve… I entered the Ministerial election.”

Although Draco had been dumfounded by the bloody arrogance of such a move, he was already well aware of it. The election was only weeks from its conclusion, after all. At the age of twenty-seven, in Draco’s opinion, Potter was far too young to be even considered for the role, but rules had never applied to Potter. But from what Draco could remember of Potter back at Hogwarts, he supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised at arrogance, or naiveté. 

“Yes, I did notice since the campaign is now drawing close to its conclusion.” Draco reminded himself that Potter was a guest, and therefore should not be subjected to unnecessary insults. “It was… very ambitious of you.”

The replying shrug was plainly false modesty. Draco’s dislike of Potter ramped up another notch.

Draco predicted that the population would probably not even pay attention to the different electoral campaigns. He imagined that at least a large section of the masses would simply pick up a ballot sheet, see Potter’s name and tick beside it. Minister Potter would seem like the safe option. Although, given the selection of other candidates, Draco would admit that the pickings were slim. Umbridge was insane, Carson was a wimpish waste of space and the other man, Jones, Draco thought his name was (but often had trouble remembering), was entirely too nice to be of much use to the country. 

“Since you’re embroiled in such an important chapter of your life, why are you here?” Potter’s time would surely be better spent sucking up to old ladies, coddling babies, bribing officials and generally winning voters with his dashing smile.

“I needed some time away. To think.”

Draco would not enquire about what. His guest’s personal business was not his concern; he was only concerned with the running of his hotel. Besides, he was too busy currently trying to remember when he had begun to think of Potter’s smile as ‘dashing’. 

“Well, I hope this establishment is suitable for your venture. Privacy and peace are of utmost priority here,” Draco said, hoping that he had steeped the last statement with particular meaning.

“I understand.”

“I’m gratified to hear that.” Draco rose to escort his guest out to the foyer.

The next time Draco saw Potter was during the evening dining service. Potter sat alone at a table, attended by an obviously eager waitress and surrounded by guests at other tables who were enjoying their meals but indulging in unsubtle glances towards the resident celebratory. 

Draco sighed. He had a feeling that he was going to be doing a lot of that in the coming days. It had apparently been too much to hope that Potter would have enough sense to dine in his room and avoid gossip or public adoration, but it was likely that such adoration was one of Potter’s favourite things. However, as long as Potter’s actions had no other negative impact, Draco would need to grit his teeth and bare it.

Draco loved this hotel; it was his pride and joy, and he was devoted to it above all else. The previous hotelier had been a grouchy man with a fondness for shouting, but Draco had become practised at calming the waters with a well-constructed smile and over time Draco had come to regard his employer as a friend.

After the man’s sudden demise, Draco and the other staff within the hotel had feared for their livelihood, but the reading of the will revealed Draco as the new owner of the business. Shocked and saddened by the implication that his employer had no-one else whom he considered more worthy to leave such a bequest, Draco had thrown himself into a role of responsibility and although he initially stumbled under pressure, he had eventually found confidence in his developing skills.

Only essential alterations had been made to the business; Draco had ensured that all existing employees remained in position, and that decision together with Draco’s dedication had led to the well-oiled business which Draco currently ran. 

Draco took pride in offering all those who passed through his doors the best of service and found that could often be deemed more important than his tainted name. And in return, Draco had found a family that he could rely on within Pear Tree Lodge.

…………

When Draco emerged into the foyer the next morning, the sight which greeted him did not warm his heart: there was a queue at the reception desk. At least eight people milled in a haphazard line, obviously trying to check out of the hotel. The checking out process was naturally a daily occurrence, but Samantha’s friendly and efficient service normally did not result in any more than one person waiting behind the guest whom she was currently assisting. As Draco approached the desk, the reason became clear and a dreadful feeling of deja vu settled in Draco’s chest. Two reporters were at the head of the queue. Their occupation was evident in their brash attitude, persistent repeated queries and the camera slung around one man’s neck. If that man dared to take a photograph, Draco was going to rip his lungs out.

Draco strode up to the desk, shoulders back, spine straight and wearing a sufficiently stern look to cause the nearest journalist to take an instinctive step backwards when Draco stopped directly in front of him.

“Samantha, are these gentlemen causing a problem?”

“Mr Malfoy,” Samantha began breathlessly. A lock of her auburn hair had broken free from her plait and swayed in front of her eyes as she spoke. “I was just trying to explain that we can’t help these gentlemen with their enquires.”

“You’re absolutely correct. I’ll escort them to the exit. Please help the guests with their requirements and apologise for any delay which they have experienced.”

“Yes, sir,” she nodded as Draco cast a subtle charm. It was a handy herding charm which compelled both men to accompany him to the door by means of an almost magnetic tug to Draco as he walked away from the desk. Both men appeared baffled by their sudden compulsion but Draco strode quickly, safe in the midst of an additional, localised silencing charm so that their protests would not be heard by the waiting guests.

After the reporters had been deposited outside, Draco sought out Potter. Not content to wait for Potter to emerge, Draco headed straight for room thirteen. A sharp rap on the door gained a rapid response.

“ _Mr_ Potter,” Draco greeted, “unfortunately the hotel has experienced another visitation from two members of the press who were anxious to speak with you.”

Potter rubbed a crusty eye. “Shit.”

“Quite. These… individuals are creating a nuisance which I will _not_ tolerate. I understand that your profile is somewhat public, but these invasions cannot be allowed to continue.”

“Come in.” Potter stepped away from the door.

Draco didn’t move. “That wouldn’t be appropriate. I merely wish to state that as a guest your custom is valued, but if this problem persists, then unfortunately I will no longer be able to accommodate you.” The resulting publicity from Potter’s stay could be an asset to the business, but Draco didn’t want any part of it. Perhaps it was a foolish business decision, but enduring animosity would not allow Draco to benefit from Potter’s celebrity. Draco had always loathed it too much.

Potter nodded, rubbing at his other eye. “Okay. I’ll… speak to some people. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“See that you do,” Draco replied, finally allowing himself the barest of sneers as he turned away.

…………

The rest of the day passed without major event until Draco’s wand vibrated late in the afternoon, signalling that he was required at reception. He responded to the call with a sense of dread.

At least Samantha looked calm. “Mr Malfoy, a Miss Granger is on the line, requesting to speak with you.”

The feeling of dread increased as Draco pressed the telephone receiver to his ear.

“Draco Malfoy,” he announced, determined to retain his professionalism. Besides, he hadn’t spoken to Granger since Hogwarts, so an informal approach didn’t seem appropriate to Draco. “How may I help you?”

“This is Hermione Granger, Harry Potter’s PA.” Of course, why not, thought Draco. The trio was probably still attached at the hip. “I would like to speak to you regarding the possibility of holding a press conference tomorrow at your hotel. Can you accommodate approximately fifty people? No refreshments will be required, only the hire of a room for two hours.”

The dread morphed into nausea.

“This is a modest establishment, we don’t have a room large enough to hold a conference.”

“I was wondering if the restaurant could be modified for that purpose? Magically cleared and expanded? Can you offer a reasonable rate for that? Mr Potter would be willing to cover any costs incurred.”

Draco was extremely reluctant, but business was business. And taking more money from Potter might brighten Draco’s day.

“What time would you require this event to take place?”

“3pm, if possible. But the time is flexible.”

The restaurant would not be in use at that time; it was too tempting an opportunity to pass on.

“Send all your requirements by owl, and I will respond with a quote within the hour,” Draco promised.

“Thank you.”

Draco replaced the receiver without uttering a response.

…………

The conference the following day went better than Draco had envisioned. He had taken careful steps to ensure that the event ran smoothly. Silencing charms were put in place around the perimeter of the room so the residents would not be disturbed. Potter and Granger stood on a conjured plinth to answer questions posed by many journalists, and Granger’s cool deportment and organisational skills impressed Draco to a degree as she efficiently fielded what could easily have become a rabble. 

Draco kept a careful eye on maintaining the boundaries and where reporters were permitted to access. And a careful eye on Potter. He had seen many photographs of Potter throughout the years, and a positive plethora since the election began, but he still found himself slightly mystified as to the public’s persistent adoration. Draco could understand why people loved a hero, but being heroic didn’t necessarily translate into being leader of a country. Potter was surely too young, and far too inexperienced to be a good choice.

But the man Draco saw on that plinth didn’t seem to be either of those things. Initially faced with a confusing swarm of flashing cameras and shouting journalists, Potter had smiled; a different, more charming curve of his lips than Potter usually wore, and articulated a calm greeting until the voices of the horde rapidly died down to quieter, if still impatient, muttering. From that moment, whenever a reporter raised his arm, Potter would nod and a question would be asked with surprising civility. Fascinated, Draco watched the way Potter controlled the crowd, expertly skimming past some questions which for whatever reason he didn’t want to answer, but effortlessly articulating his responses and opinions on other queries until eventually the crowd sighed with disappointment when Granger raised a hand and announced that the session was over. 

When the last journalist had left the building, and the restaurant had been magically returned to its former glory, Draco congratulated himself on making some relatively easy money. 

Later that same evening, Draco was seated at the bar nursing a nip of whisky when he noticed Potter lingering a few feet away.

Potter spoke first. “Can I join you?” Draco wordlessly indicated a padded stool to his left. 

Darren the bartender was on the job within seconds of Potter’s bum hitting the seat. “Mr Potter. What can I get you, sir?” 

“Oh. Whisky would be fine.”

“Which brand would you prefer?” Darren dutifully enquired.

Potter surveyed the well-stocked shelves. “Umm… whatever he’s having, thanks.” Draco was astonished at the rapid return of Potter’s awkward indecisiveness.

“I might be having tea laced with arsenic, for all you know.”

“Well, you seem to be faring well enough on it,” Potter grinned. “So that’ll be fine. With ice, please.”

Darren served the drink efficiently in an immaculate glass and presented it to Potter with a friendly smile which held just the wrong side of suggestiveness when it swung towards Draco. Darren was an asset to the bar, but Draco was cautious of him. The man had made too many unsubtle suggestions to allow Draco to be completely at ease. He was taller than Draco, broader across the shoulders and chest, and definitely not unattractive with a gently tousled head of brown hair. Draco had made it clear that he didn’t dally with the staff, but Darren’s eyes continued to shine with mischievous hope regardless. They shone now with that same mischief for a second before Darren turned towards the other end of the counter to serve a guest who had just arrived.

At least Potter didn’t appear to have noticed. As Potter sipped his drink, Draco sat quietly, enjoying the chatter of contented people around him. It was one of his favourite things to do at the end of a day. Turning to face Potter, Draco noticed him stifling a yawn behind his hand. 

“You look tired, Potter. Or am I just boring you?”

“Knackered,” confirmed Potter. “Been a long day. Hopefully, the press should be satisfied now though. No one should harass your staff tomorrow, I’ve answered all their questions.”

Draco was strangely pleased by Potter’s consideration. Draco preferred conversations with Potter to be brief, whether the exchange included one curt word or several civil sentences, but tonight he was curious.

“Why was the press hounding you? I mean, aside from your persistent state of celebrity and the election?” The conference had helped Draco to gain some insight, but it was incomplete.

Potter laughed; a not unpleasant sound accompanied by a slight bodily tremble which travelled down his arm to tinkle the ice in his glass. “Isn’t that enough?” 

“No. I got the impression that it was something more.”

“Maybe.”

“What, then?”

“Are you actually interested? Or just looking for something new to mock me with?”

“Potter, I haven’t mocked you for years. Frankly, I can’t be bothered. People can grow up sometimes. What’s the story? Is it rife with intrigue?”

“Not really.” Potter’s dramatic pause was just a tad too long for Draco’s liking. He was about to use an invective to urge events along when Potter spoke again. “I left my… life, I suppose. Everything. Except the election. And I’m not even sure that I want that, not that I’ve made the last part public.”

“What do you mean, you ‘left your life’?”

“Exactly that. I left my home. I left my boyfriend… I don’t think he cared all that much. I left my job already, a while ago. So… now I’m here.”

“Why did you come here, in particular?”

“To be honest, I didn’t. I was wandering about, wondering where to go because I didn’t want to go home, getting wetter by the second and nearly falling on my face off the kerb in a dark street corner near here where the streetlamps were out… and this hotel looked inviting from the freezing street. I didn’t know you worked here, let alone _owned_ the place. Thank you, by the way. For giving me such a great room at short notice.”

“Don’t thank me, Potter. It’s business.”

“I suspect that this place is more than that to you.”

Draco didn’t reply. Too much honesty in one day was not wise, and Potter had been more than honest enough for the both of them. Draco couldn’t help but wonder why. They hadn’t talked in years and had hardly been on friendly terms even back then, so it seemed odd for Potter to openly discuss so much personal information. But Draco was too tired to analyse it. Politely excusing himself, he wished Potter a pleasant night and retired to his room.

…………

Apparently, Draco wasn’t the only one with a fondness for Muggle telephones. Potter certainly seemed to be very attached to one such device, although Draco had to admit that Potter’s use of the mobile phone didn’t really indicate fondness. As the week progressed, Draco was becoming accustomed to the ring of Potter’s phone; the melodic chime was often heard when Potter was in the vicinity, and Draco was beginning to associate and appreciate the sound as an early warning of Potter’s approach. The integration of some Muggle technology into the Wizarding World during recent years had been relatively successful, so only a few guests frowned in mild puzzlement as Potter strolled by, ear to phone. The resigned sigh that Potter emitted whenever the ring began spoke volumes. 

Potter seemed to be constantly on the move: striding through the foyer in a flutter of expensive robes towards some unknown destination in the mornings and making frequent reappearances at the hotel throughout the day (often accompanied by Granger) before striding back out again. Often Potter’s progress through the hotel would be hampered by an enthusiastic guest and busy though he evidently was, Potter never failed to spend a few minutes speaking with whomever requested his attention. It would be unseemly for Draco to eavesdrop on the conversations, but Potter’s subtly altered demeanour when conversing with press or the public repeatedly perked Draco’s interest. Potter stood a little taller, spoke a little clearer, and smiled that much wider. The effect was utterly trustworthy. Draco wondered if it was an intentional ruse or a response which Potter had cultivated over the years which had now become instinctual. Potter had not been so composed when he was younger, but Draco could understand how an alternate persona might be gradually developed during adulthood to deal with constant public scrutiny. 

Most evenings Potter wore a ragged expression of fatigue which Draco didn’t envy. Although Draco observed from a distance, his curiosity ever growing, he was still reluctant to initiate unnecessary interactions. 

It was during the early evening a few days later when Draco heard the fateful ringing but had not been in a position to remove himself from the vicinity before Potter’s appearance. Crouched down in a corridor to comfort a crying kitchen worker, Draco saw Potter loitering in his peripheral vision, phone pressed to ear as Potter conversed briefly. Draco did not do comforting well, but he would attempt it when required. The job done to the best of his ability, Draco supplied his charge with a fresh handkerchief and coaxed her to go back to the kitchen. He would deal with the person who had needlessly upset her in short order. 

The girl set on her way, Draco rose, hoping that Potter would still be deeply involved in the telephone conversation. But as Draco turned, Potter ended the call with impeccable timing. 

“Hey,” Potter greeted. “Is she okay?”

Resigned to the exchange, Draco replied, “She’s fine. Merely a minor personal issue which she needed to discuss, It won’t aff - what?” he added, when Potter gaped.

“Nothing. I just didn’t expect you to be…” Potter trailed off into silence.

“Didn’t expect me to be what?”

“Umm… gentle.”

The word was mildly offensive. Draco was _not_ a gentle person. But this was Draco’s family; he could be soothing, or at least attempt it. It was _immensely_ offensive for Potter to presume otherwise.

“Because a heartless Malfoy could _never_ understand the concept of empathy,” Draco snarled before he managed to censor himself.

Potter chuckled. “There’s the Malfoy that I remember.” Draco’s next snarl commenced as a low, wordless sound in the back of his throat. “But that wasn’t what I’d meant.” Potter held out placating palms.

“Then what _did_ you mean?”

“You just took me by surprise. I can see that you care a lot about the people in this building.”

Not able to trust his mouth to utter politeness just yet, Draco nodded. And noticed that Potter’s attire was notably more refined than usual. Potter noticed him noticing, and actually blushed under the analysis.

“Ministry ball,” Potter offered as explanation. “Those parties aren’t getting any less boring.”

“Then perhaps you should stop attending them. Or reconsider your participation in the election.”

Potter scrunched his nose in amused consideration of the query. “Tempting.”

Something about Potter’s weariness caused Draco to utter a suggestion. “Perhaps a quality drink afterwards would be an incentive to make it through. The bar has recently obtained some excellent vintages which do wonders to revive after long, arduous tasks.”

“I might take you up on that offer. I should be -” A familiar chime from the direction of Potter’s pocket interrupted him. Potter sighed the requisite sigh as he retrieved the device, cradled it in his palm and flipped it open even as he gestured apologetically to Draco. “Harry Potter.” A lengthy pause followed. “That’s not what we agreed.” Another pause. “But I rescheduled my entire day tomorrow to create time for the interview, because you advised me that it was essential to speak to them. If that’s the case, then why is it a - hold on.” Potter punched the tip of his forefinger to a button and turned his attention back to Draco. “Sorry, this might take a while.” Potter looked truly regretful.

“It’s no trouble,” Draco assured. “I’ll leave you to take care of business. And Darren will be pleased to oblige with refreshments when you return.” Something which might have been disappointment dulled Potter’s expression. Not wishing to analyse it, Draco said, “Have a good evening,” and ended the exchange with a brisk nod before seeking out a safe distance from Potter.

…………

A few hours later, Draco was sitting on a stool at the bar, uncertain as to why he felt compelled to wait for Potter’s return and avoiding Darren’s curious looks. Maybe it was simple curiosity which caused him to wait; maybe it was the cut of Potter’s well-fitting robe.

It was past 1am when Potter re-entered the hotel. Darren had already closed the bar for the night, but had left a bottle on the counter with two glasses at Draco’s request. Draco had chosen to ignore the teasing wink.

Potter didn’t speak as he approached Draco; instead, he simply slid up onto a neighbouring high barstool, rested his elbows on the teak bar and buried his head in both hands. This particular Potter was unfamiliar to Draco, so he opted for what he hoped was a good option and nudged the open bottle an inch towards Potter. The sound of glass scraping against wood roused Potter to lift the bottle and pour a generous measure.

A short while later, the edges of reality were blurring pleasantly until Potter’s voice broke the peace. Draco noted that the alcohol was also smoothing the edges of Potter’s face in a not unappealing way. That was alarming, but not unexpected; Potter had probably spent the last nine years engaged in sexual relations with a list of attractive, willing men who had appreciated that face. Most men did not consider the prospect of bedding a Malfoy to hold the same appeal. Draco blamed his father. Draco had not been completely deprived of sexual partners since the war, but his pickings had been slim. And Potter was not unattractive; that had never been the problem, even back at Hogwarts. Draco had certainly not been enamoured by Potter’s infuriating existence, but even he could appreciate the curve of a fine arse. This appreciation was growing stronger during his current dry spell, but improper admiration could be cured with a good, rough fuck. Not with Potter, of course.

Draco was not a romantic soul; he understood how the world worked, especially for people like him. There were occasional moments, fuelled by alcohol or tiredness, when he had occasionally wondered if it might be pleasant to have a person with which to share tiny intimacies; someone with whom Draco could remove all trace of pretence, even for a short while. Someone to wake up with. But thankfully such maudlin moments were fleeting and easily ignored. So, Draco picked up his glass and strived to do exactly that.

The pinnacle of the evening’s encounter occurred halfway down the bottle. Potter had imbibed significantly more alcohol than Draco which, together with Draco’s own unwise indulgence, conspired to create a treacherous moment. It would have been easier to understand if Potter was slurring his words or acting in an irrational manner, but instead Potter remained infuriatingly lucid. 

“Are you happy with your life, Malfoy?”

A strange question, but drunkenness could account for many things.

“Yes,” Draco answered almost honestly, and watched Potter’s face slacken with what could have been disappointment again.

“Really?”

“Yes,” repeated Draco.

“That’s good,” muttered Potter.

“Aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I suppose, sort of.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Well, no. It’s not so bad, but it could be better. Want to make it better,” Potter whispered as he leant forward. Draco jerked reflectively back just in time to avoid a clash of lips. 

Potter teetered on the stool, frowning in confusion. Draco rectified his own treacherous wobble caused by the sudden movement and attempted to understand what had happened. Potter had almost kissed him, that much was clear. But it was possible that Potter was simply an overly amorous drunk. Draco decided that it might be better to ask, rather than drive himself crazy with possibilities.

“What… was that, Potter?”

“I thought… it might be fun.”

Heat tingled in Draco’s belly and groin at the thought of how Potter’s fingers might feel against his skin, whether they would be calloused or smooth. But Potter was a _guest_ , not to mention a very public figure. 

Draco sighed, maintained a safe distance and said, “You don’t want to do that. You’re just drunk.”

Potter blinked, apparently startled by the accusation. “I’m not drunk.”

“Yes, you are. Or you’re just horny. Both will be mortifying to you in the morning.”

Potter grinned in an attractively lazy way, but Draco was not swayed; this would be more hassle than it was likely to be worth. The grin continued in unacknowledged silence for too long before Potter nodded the slow thoughtful nod of the inebriated and said, “Maybe I am a bit horny. But maybe you could help me with that.”

Ignoring the growing enthusiasm of his cock, Draco opted for direct honesty; he was just drunk enough to try a fresh approach to the Potter problem. He presented a grin of his own. “I could oblige. But I won’t stick around for snuggling, or to hear you griping afterwards about how I took shameless advantage of you. I don’t cuddle. I’m not gentle. Or caring. I have absolutely no consideration for other people’s pleasure before my own. Especially people who I don’t like,” Draco added for emphasis.

Annoyingly, Potter licked his lips in an alarmingly predatory manner. “I don’t like you either, don’t get the wrong idea - but that doesn’t mean we can’t make this a better night for both of us.”

So, Potter just wanted to fuck, nothing more. The information should have been reassuring, since that was the only thing that Draco needed. But it cut surprisingly deep that Potter still hated him yet was willing to shag him anyway. Somehow, that shallowness was not what Draco had come to expect from Potter, and consequently tarnished the image which Draco had held of him. Potter was meant to be above such pettiness. Really, they both were.

Desperate to regain his footing, Draco replied, “Thanks, but no thanks. What you’re suggesting is hardly my idea of a better night.”

Draco’s words had the desired effect. Potter’s expression turned stony. “I understand - you’d rather be alone. Like you’ll probably be for the rest of your life. That’s fine by me.”

Potter nearly tripped over his own feet as he hopped down from the stool and disappeared with a crack. If Draco was honest, his refusal had been more related to the desire not to take advantage of an inebriated and clearly unhappy man than either professional integrity or schoolboy animosity. Ignoring his irrational disappointment, Draco trudged back to his room, intent on forgetting the encounter. As an excellent distraction, there would be plenty of work to do tomorrow.

…………

Working was precisely what Draco was doing when Potter was flung into his path again. Breakfast was in full swing in the restaurant, the reception desk was running smoothly and the chambermaids were being their usual discreet selves as they worked to ready vacant rooms for new guests.

“Umm, morning,” was Potter’s greeting of choice as he approached the desk. 

“Good morning.” Draco dipped his head while he finished checking out an elderly gentleman, affording Potter no further greeting until the man had exited the hotel. 

“I’m… sorry,” mumbled Potter. “I might’ve overstepped a line last night.”

Draco thought that perhaps they both had, but was content to let Potter take the brunt of the blame.

“Yes.”

“Can I apologise?”

“You just did, Potter.”

“No, I mean with dinner.”

Oh, _that_ kind of apology.

“We have a beautiful restaurant here.”

“But surely you must go elsewhere sometimes? Let me take you out to dinner. Eight o’clock?” Potter asked. “Would that suit?”

Draco tried not to make eye contact with Potter’s hopeful gaze. Going anywhere with Potter seemed like an invitation for events to inevitably repeat themselves. He risked a glance upwards. Potter looked sexily ruffled but poised with quiet contrition; a combination which was intriguing, even on someone Draco was hardly fond of. Draco could confidently leave the hotel in the capable hands of his staff for the evening. He could accompany Potter to the restaurant and hopefully alleviate a little more of his growing curiosity. Potter was an oddity, already revealing so much teasing information, and sometimes Draco was too nosy for his own good. It wasn’t his most cunning trait, but Draco justified the behaviour to himself as gathering of possibly useful information. 

“That would be fine,” confirmed Draco. 

As he watched Potter enter the restaurant for breakfast, Draco was stunned by his own irrationality. This was happening too quickly; Draco’s original abhorrence of Potter had diluted first to mere irritated dislike, then to curiosity and now to… whatever this was. Draco knew he was taking a chance, but it felt so long since he had taken one of those.

…………

That evening, Draco checked his appearance again in the mirror before he left his room. Unsure about their destination, Draco had opted for simple attire: dark grey robes which were casual enough for day wear, but formal enough to make the transition into evening.

At precisely 8:03pm, Draco made his way upstairs into the foyer where he found Potter waiting. Before long, Draco was installed in a fine restaurant, preparing himself for an arduous evening without being entirely sure why he’d agreed to it. But Potter intrigued him. As they entered the restaurant, a murmur rose around the room. It would seem that Potter could not go anywhere without a public reaction, worsened by the current political race. Potter dipped his head at a couple of people as he walked through the restaurant, and the murmur rose to interested whispers as it became evident who Potter’s companion was. Draco poised his chin at a high but not haughty angle and pretended that he felt he belonged there.

Afterwards, Draco could not recall much of the meal, only the twitch of Potter’s mouth and the occasional brushes of skin as they both reached for wine or bread. He had scattered memories of disapproving mutters from various diners, often punctuated by pointed glares or pointing fingers. Draco didn’t care about public disapproval; he was used to it. For every person he won over, there would still be masses who hated him on principle. Thankfully, those people tended to steer clear of him, but it was impossible to completely avoid the past. To both Draco’s amusement and irritation, Potter had retaliated to every hushed insult with a sharp look to the perpetrator. If the originator of the insult returned Potter’s stare with an apologetic smile (which happened surprisingly often), Potter would flash a smile so radiant that Draco wanted to taste it, but if the hostility was maintained, Potter would turn from them as if they were utterly inconsequential and Draco took pleasure in watching their mortified blush. It seemed that everyone wanted to please Potter, even if it went against their own beliefs. 

Surprisingly, the evening had been disturbed only once by the inevitable ringing. Potter had dutifully retrieved the phone from the folds of his robe but as he flipped it open, his gaze had flicked between it and Draco with an air of intense contemplation before Potter had hit a button to regain silence. That simple act had pleased Draco’s ego immensely.

Draco remembered the journey back to Pear Tree Lodge with precise detail, although it had only lasted a handful of seconds. Outside the restaurant, Potter had reached out a hand and, inexplicably, Draco had taken it, slid his fingers between Potter’s and immediately felt the tug of Apparation. An instant later, they arrived, feet planted upon the deep crimson carpet of the hotel’s bar.

Relinquishing his grip on Potter with reluctance, Draco turned to face the surprised barman. 

“Darren, can we have a bottle of whisky over here? Your choice. Surprise us.”

“Bad night?” Darren directed the question to Draco.

“Not at all.” 

Looking relieved, Potter slid onto the stool beside Draco. 

When the glasses and bottle arrived, the choice of whisky was splendid. And again, the alcohol flowed too easily.

“Today was… messy,” muttered Potter as he sipped his drink.

“I didn’t think it was that bad. There’ll always be the occasional person who doesn’t approve of the fact that I’m roaming free.”

“I don’t mean that. I meant my day… before.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry. You don’t want to hear about that.”

Draco was surprised that he did. What Draco really wanted to know was why Potter seemed sad or discontent so much of the time. “I do.” He was aware that he may be repeating a mistake, but it seemed important enough to warrant the risk. As Potter’s hand raised his glass to sip and set it back down, the irregular tinkle of ice told the story of his day better than any words. 

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” Potter whispered, the last traces of his grin fading as he took a larger gulp of liquid. And another. “I can’t remember why I ever wanted to enter the election.”

“What would you rather be doing?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think I want to become Minister.”

The solution was obvious to Draco. “Then withdraw from the election.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“What did you do before, Potter?” Draco tried to remember the snippets of newspaper articles he had read over the years. “Weren’t you an Auror?”

“Yeah. It was easier to be an Auror than do this.”

“So… you quit your job to aim for political office, and now you don’t even want to be Minister? That’s absurd.”

“Yeah…” Potter looked down, swinging his feet. It struck Draco that Potter might be about to admit something interesting. “I let Scrimgeour push me into the election.”

“Why would he do that? All you need to do is drop out of the running, it’s not as if you’ve won it yet.”

“It’s not that easy. I made a promise, and I don’t like to let people down. A lot of people have invested time and money in me. I shouldn’t be rambling at you about it.”

“No, you shouldn’t - you should be withdrawing.”

“But that’s not what I mean to talk to you about. I was thinking, especially after tonight, that it might not hurt… or it might hurt a _lot_ if we’re seen to be associating with each other.”

“What?”

“I just tho -”

“You want to use my… unpopularity with some of the public to help you lose the election? That’s why you wanted to go out? For us to be seen in public together?”

“No! Well, not really.”

“Right.”

Potter reached out a hand, aiming for Draco’s shoulder. “Draco, I -”

Draco shrugged it away from him. “It’s ‘Draco’, now? How the tide has turned. And so quickly.”

“Don’t be like that. I… have I offended you?”

The notion of Potter exploiting Draco’s personal struggle against the unpopularity of his family name was offensive indeed, but Draco replied, “Don’t worry about offending me. We hate each other, it comes with the territory.”

“Do we, really?”

Draco had been stupid enough to forget that essential fact over the last few days, so he reasserted it now as he slid off his stool. “Yes, we do. Good night. I hope you choke on that fucking whisky.”

“Hang on, Malfoy. I think I owe you another apology. Much as I never thought I’d say that.”

“The trauma must be significant.”

“Yeah,” Potter chuckled, not quite convincingly. “But I mean it. I really didn’t mean any offence. And I don’t think I hate you at all anymore. You’re different from how I remember,” he breathed into his glass. “Forget the public. Forget the bloody election. I’m not helpless, I’ll sort it out. The point is, I… don’t hate you, which is what I’ve been trying to show you.”

Draco pondered on Potter’s last mumble, confused as to why this was such an important point to Potter. “People do change, I suppose,” he conceded, mostly for something to say. “But… why do you want to be here with me, Potter? Buying me dinner and trying hard not to offend me? Trying to _kiss_ me? What’s the point of it all?”

Potter shrugged. “I think I’m just looking for something different.”

“I’m so flattered,” Draco deadpanned. “If you want different, look for it somewhere else. This is not a good idea.”

“Few of mine are. Can’t we go with it anyway?”

Draco did not leap into one night stands, they tended to be messy. “We should probably see if we can stand to be in each other’s company first.”

“We’re in each other’s company _now_.”

Draco had enjoyed too much wine over dinner to logically deal with such irrational revelations. “I don’t think either of us is in a position to think clearly.”

Potter did not seem to share Draco’s trepidation. A short lean brought Potter’s hand close enough to stroke the edge of Draco’s jaw. The gesture was much too intimate for their tentative acquaintance, but the touch sent a tremor down Draco’s neck that was difficult to ignore. It had been too long since anyone had touched Draco with tenderness.

“We could go to your house?” suggested Potter, dropping his hand. 

“I live here, Potter.”

Potter looked startled but recovered quickly. “Your… room, then?”

Draco watched the tiny movements of Potter’s fingers as they rested on the wooden surface, willing the hand to lift again, repeat the manoeuvre. He should not miss that hand so much after only one simple touch. Perhaps Draco had gone too long without sex this time; the deficiency was warping his brain.

But warped or not, Draco did not have the willpower to refuse this offer again. Sex with someone he didn’t particularly like was still better than no sex at all. 

“We’ll go downstairs,” Draco agreed, refusing to acknowledge how much he swayed when he stood. Apparating was not a good plan in his current state, so he steered Potter towards the stairs.

Potter followed Draco downstairs in silence. Neither of them initiated any physical contact as they walked. Draco preferred that; he suspected that it would not take much of a jolt to shatter this surrealism. They reached Draco’s suite before long, and Potter stumbled as he entered the small hallway which led to Draco’s rooms. In the guise of providing assistance, Draco reached out his arms and swept Potter in. Wrapping Potter tightly against his chest, Draco closed his eyes and lowered towards Potter’s lips, deliberately rushing to remove the opportunity to over think this decision. 

The taste of Potter was not similar to spice or peppermint or anything so delightfully pleasant; he tasted of sweat and whisky, edged with a rasp of stubble. 

“Where’s your bedroom?” Potter enquired, and the bubble burst.

In the wake of such a pertinent question, there was no way for Draco to avoid thinking about exactly what he was doing. What he was _about_ to do. Shit. The moment broken, Draco released his grip on Potter’s waist and stepped back. Potter’s frown of confusion almost tugged Draco back, but he held firm.

“I… think you should leave.”

Potter’s eyes widened in shock. “What?”

“This would be… a mistake. For both of us.”

“You’re kicking me out?”

“You’ll thank me for it tomorrow.”

Confusion versus astonishment appeared to be battling for dominance to control Potter’s features, but Potter’s chin soon lifted in unsteady defiance. “Why did you let me come down here?”

Draco wanted Potter back. His arms were practically itching to hold him again. But it wasn’t due to Potter, it was merely the thrill of having held a man close.

“Call it temporary insanity.”

“I’ll call it being a fucking cock tease, Malfoy,” Potter snarled as he stumbled towards the door.


	2. Chapter 2

The following afternoon, a man in a nicely tailored suit strode past Draco in the foyer. Not an uncommon event, but the man had looked vaguely familiar. One of the advantages of owning a hotel meant that Draco could ask pertinent questions about the identity of everyone within the walls without appearing too invasive.

“Samantha?” he asked, sauntering quickly towards the desk. “Who was that man who just walked past me?”

Samantha lifted her head from the register just in time to survey the man before he rounded a corner. “Mr Potter’s guest. His partner, I think,” before returning her attention to work.

“Partner?” Draco asked, seeking clarification.

“Boyfriend, I suppose.”

“Did he check in?”

“No. He did sign the visitor’s register, though.” She flipped the book open and scanned the entries. “Mr Longbottom.”

Draco only gaped a little bit. Although Draco had caught the briefest of glimpses, from what he had seen Longbottom had filled out nicely. He was still not Draco’s type, but he could understand Potter’s attraction. Draco wondered if Longbottom was as gormless as he remembered, but considering events towards the end of the war, he was probably not.

But Potter’s swiftness with moving on from the previous night stung harshly. Draco supposed that getting back together with a previous boyfriend was an easier opportunity for sex than continuing to pursue a new venture. The twinge of jealousy that Draco felt was entirely unjustified and inappropriate, so he strode from the desk to find an occupation to rid himself of it, while enjoying a private fantasy involving poisoned wine via room service. Draco had turned Potter down. Twice. He really had no reason to complain. But irrational or not, Draco cultivated a minor dislike of Longbottom that had lain forgotten for years and developed it into a current loathing.

Although Draco was busy with tasks, he made it his business to keep track of Potter and Longbottom’s movements throughout the day. They had lunched together in the lounge, followed by a distressingly long spell when the couple had disappeared in the direction of room thirteen before they had arrived for dinner reservations at around 7:30pm. It was not stalking; it was taking a healthy interest in his guests. If Draco knew where his guests were then he could better anticipate their needs. Which is precisely how Draco was able to intercept Potter and Longbottom after they emerged from the restaurant that evening. Draco waited until they were passing through a quiet corridor before he stepped neatly into their path.

As expected, both men stopped to greet him. Longbottom with a surprised half grin, Potter with an unsurprised complete glower. 

Since Potter was busy glowering and Draco’s throat was closing up, Longbottom was first to speak. “Malfoy. I haven’t seen you for years.”

Draco recovered his voice quickly. “Yes, it’s been entirely too long since I’ve had the pleasure of the company of yet another hero.”

“Well, fuck you too,” Longbottom replied, grin still firmly in place, and Draco’s opinion of him improved greatly.

Still Draco could not afford distractions. Draco had intended to engage in some pointless small talk to gauge the situation, but Potter’s continued glower spurred him on to enquire, “Will your partner be staying tonight, Potter? If so, I would ask you to please check him in as an additional guest in your room. The room rate can be adjusted accordingly.”

Longbottom started and Potter blinked, clearly befuddled once again by something. “Neville is one of my publicists, Draco. He was here to discuss business.”

“Right.”

“Yes, _right_.”

“There’s no need to be discreet on my account.”

The glower intensified. Apparently, Potter did not care for having his attentions twice rejected. “I know. Believe me, I wouldn’t expend the energy.”

Longbottom was watching the scene with fascinated interest, but Draco couldn’t stop now. “I’m sure you’re quite worn out from today’s exertions.”

Potter replied with quiet, but obvious resentment. “Not particularly. I haven’t been _required_ to participate in very strenuous or interesting activities.” 

“Perhaps your day will improve in that regard,” Draco suggested.

“I doubt it.”

“My condolences if Longbottom doesn’t find himself up to the chall -” A pointed cough from Longbottom was sufficient to silence Draco. His pace interrupted, Draco was momentarily unable to find suitable words, so he took an alternative route. To where, he wasn’t sure. “Other opportunities may yet present themselves.”

“Oh?” Potter actually brightened, his eyebrows rose from their furrowed state and the beginning of a smile twitched at his lips. “What do you think those might be?”

“I’m not sure yet.” 

“When do you think that more information may become available?”

Draco debated the question and, against his better judgement, threw caution to the wind. “Possibly tonight.”

Potter fell silent, his brows furrowing again, but not into another glower. Instead, Potter looked to be considering something. Interested to hear Potter’s response, Draco didn’t disturb the silence. But before long had passed, Draco caught a slight movement in the corner of his vision that he was certain had been a nudge to Potter’s ribs from Longbottom‘s elbow.

“Well, I… may be interested in finding out more,” Potter mumbled, glancing between Longbottom and Draco.

“I believe you know where the best place would be to look for additional information, Potter. Around 11pm would be convenient,” Draco added rashly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests to attend to.”

…………

It was unprofessional for Draco to be entertaining a guest in his suite, but Draco didn’t want an audience. Draco had not been certain if Potter would take the hint, but Potter had arrived the door of Draco’s suite promptly at eleven, bottle of wine in hand and a question on his lips.

“Malfoy, why did you ask me to leave last night?”

Draco ushered Potter inside and took the proffered bottle before he answered. 

“Wasn’t the reason obvious?”

“Would I be asking, if it was?”

Draco escorted Potter into the lounge and placed the bottle on the coffee table. “Potter… in case any of this has escaped your notice, you are a Ministerial candidate. I’m not sure why they’re even allowing it, but it’s a fact. Also, even without that _major_ factor, you are constantly in the public eye. I don’t need that kind of publicity. And, most importantly, we can barely make it through a conversation without regressing to schoolboy insults. Does any of this seem like the ideal situation to you?”

Potter had the audacity to grin. “Umm… not if I was issuing a spontaneous marriage proposal, no. You’re attractive, Malfoy… but not _that_ attractive.” There was something surreal, and not entirely unwelcome, about Potter’s admission that he found Draco attractive. But Draco supposed that it was gratifying to be considered pleasing to the eye, no matter who the admirer may be. Potter stepped closer; Draco stepped to the other side of the coffee table. “Do you find me attractive at all?”

“I find you infuriating, Potter.”

“Well, I’m that too.”

The almost cocky smirk on Potter’s face was interesting. “You’re self-assured all of a sudden, aren’t you?”

Potter shrugged. “I’m unsure about the election. Not about everything else. So much stuff has happened lately, I just needed to remind myself of a few things which I’d let other people cause me to forget.”

“Such as?”

“I didn’t like being an Auror. That was the reason I quit. I didn’t give up my job to enter the election, that came later.” That seemed an insignificant point to Draco, but he nodded in encouragement for Potter to continue. “I didn’t like my boyfriend, turns out that he wasn’t such a pleasant person. I don’t like living at Grimmauld Place, it’s depressing… for a few reasons. But… I like staying at this hotel. And I’m really starting to like _you_. How odd is that?” Potter laughed.

“It’s baffling. Why?” Draco asked cautiously.

“I’m not sure. Like I said, I think I’m looking for something different, and you’re definitely that. People lately have just been agreeing with everything I say, even though it’s obvious that I’ve no idea what to do in this election. I think Scrimgeour has had a large part to play in that. You don’t do that. I don’t trust you… but I trust you to be honest about your opinion of me. Does that make sense?”

“Not at all.”

“But I don’t think this… whatever it is, is entirely one-sided.” Potter was moving around the coffee table. Draco watched with interest. “After all, you did ask me to come back down here. Why did you do that?”

“Maybe I just want to get laid.”

“I don’t think so. Otherwise, you could’ve done that last night. Or the night before. But it would be an interesting starting point.”

Potter could clearly see the objection forming on Draco’s lips, but Potter was suddenly close enough to slide his fingers through the back of Draco’s hair and tug Draco roughly forward. Draco had the opportunity to fill Potter’s mouth with a gasp, just a little exhalation of air before Potter’s tongue swept out to meet his. Kissing Potter was both better and worse than Draco had expected: better because Draco couldn’t remember when the stroke of a tongue and the awkward clashing of teeth had ever been more thrilling, worse because Draco didn’t want it to end.

To Draco’s immense disappointment, Potter soon pulled away. But he didn’t move very far. Potter’s breath warmed Draco’s skin as he panted.

“Are you going to throw me out again, Malfoy?”

“Not just now,” Draco breathed, anxious to move past the chatter and back to kissing.

Letting go didn’t enter Draco’s mind when they arrived in his bedroom; instead, he employed strategic manoeuvring until he was able to topple Potter backwards onto the mattress. Potter seemed to wholeheartedly agree with this decision as he pulled Draco down on top of him. 

…………

The next morning, Draco glanced towards the doorway which led to the bathroom. Potter stood in the gap, possibly debating whether to re-enter the bedroom or flee.

Draco had never been fond of mornings. “Potter, you’re pissing me off,” he growled, rolling to his side on the mattress to burrow back into the softness.

In truth, Draco’s infuriation stemmed from a frustrating inability to figure Potter out. Potter had accompanied Draco here because of a desire for sex, that much was evident by recent events, but Draco was struggling to understand why. And in the cruel morning light, Draco had expected Potter to crawl out of bed in a fit of shame or rage and never look back. Potter’s continued presence was confusing. 

Draco had woken in a tangle of sweaty limbs that had initially tightened around him when he’d attempted to wriggle free, but shortly afterwards had abandoned him to solitude. Draco had been certain that Potter would not return, so he remained in bed, nursing a weariness that could be likened to regret. But a few minutes later, the sound of a flushing toilet and running water had informed Draco that Potter was still within the vicinity. Potter’s shuffle at the bathroom doorway had soon drawn Draco’s attention. 

“Are you coming back in, Potter?” Draco asked impatiently.

“Can I?” Potter was not supposed to ask that; Potter was meant to _want_ to leave. Mortification caused by the realisation that he had shagged a man he hated was meant to propel Potter from Draco’s life. 

The ripple of Potter’s throat as it swallowed down nervousness was immensely distracting. Potter’s confidence had continued to grow during the previous night’s activities and Draco almost missed it. The uncertainty that Potter now emanated was not appealing in a sparring partner. Draco wanted to see more of the confident Potter, ripe with the stubbornness and fiery temper that Draco recalled from school.

“If you want to leave, then just go,” suggested Draco.

Potter’s jaw firmed, but his voice remained calm. “I didn’t say that I wanted to leave.”

“I don’t care. It’s up to you. But I didn’t ask you to get out of the bed, Potter.”

“Can’t you call me Harry? You’ve had your cock up my arse, so I think that could permit informalities, Draco.”

“Hmm… I’ll think about it.”

“You do that,” Potter murmured as he crawled under the sheets and lay down to face Draco. Cool hands crept over Draco’s skin. “Maybe I’ll stick around for a bit.”

“Are you deluding yourself that we might develop a trusting relationship?” 

Potter’s hand stilled on Draco’s thigh. “No,” he grinned. “I know you too well to trust you.”

Draco was starting to like that grin far too much. “What, then? Was one nice shag enough to make you want to stay? Are you that easily pleased, Potter?”

On reflection, there might have been a better choice of word. Potter looked insulted. “Nice?”

“Mind-blowing,” Draco amended, knowing it was too late. Honestly, it had not been mind-blowing, but it had been immensely enjoyable, nonetheless. Draco wisely refrained from voicing the observation. Potter did not look like a bad addition to Draco’s bedroom, lying clad in crumpled, sweat-soaked sheets, the bird’s nest of black hair tempting Draco to bury his nose in messy strands.

“It doesn’t need to be that I suppose. For us,” said Potter, moving his light strokes down to tease Draco’s cock to hardness.

“More than mind-blowing? I should hope not,” Draco snorted, trying to save face.

“I mean, it doesn’t need to be a trusting relationship. We’re clearly attracted to each other. But we’re adults, we can decide where our boundaries are. You’re busy with work, so am I. Casual isn’t a bad thing, you know.” It took Draco a few confused seconds to work out what Potter meant. When green eyes flicked up to regard Draco, they shone with something expectant. 

“Is that what you think?” Draco asked, truly curious now.

Potter threw out a retaliating question quickly, squeezing the tip of Draco’s erection. “What do _you_ think?” 

“I’m not sure, Potter,” Draco shrugged. “I’m not going to meet up just for sex with you, if that’s what you’re implying.” Although the slight thrust he gave into Potter’s fist may have send a mixed signal.

“Fine, then we’ll go out for dinner, first.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a date. And besides, we did that already.”

“Feel free to call it whatever you like. And people have been known to dine together more than once.”

Potter’s suggestion felt like a contradiction. But as Potter tilted his head into the pillow, stretching the smooth skin of his neck, Draco had a peculiar urge to keep him. At least for a little while. It would be an interesting experiment, given their history, to see how long two people with such a hostile past could stand to be in each other’s company before their opposing personalities caused the attempt to implode. Perhaps a day, perhaps they never would. Maybe a few years of maturity could make a real difference. Draco was curious enough to find out.

“It could be interestingly hazardous.”

Potter smiled in agreement.

…………

Draco was in the middle of a busy morning at the hotel. He was headed towards the kitchen when his wand vibrated. 

“Miss Granger for you again, Mr Malfoy,” Samantha informed him upon his arrival at the desk.

Draco wouldn’t sigh. He would _not_ sigh.

He spoke into the mouthpiece. “Yes, Granger?” 

“Morning, Malfoy. How are you?”

Draco did not fool himself that Granger gave a rat’s arse how he was.

“I’m well,” he answered anyway. “And yourself?”

“Not so good. There’s been a development that I wasn’t very happy to read about this morning.”

“What development?”

“Haven’t you seen the _Daily Prophet_?”

“No. Hold on.” He pressed the privacy button on the telephone. “Samantha, can you pass me that copy of the _Prophet_ , please?” A copy of the paper was shortly spread out on the desk, and Draco scanned the front page; nothing seemed particularly relevant. Umbridge had been prattling on about the awfulness of child abuse, something that Draco thought she’d know more about than most. Draco hit the privacy button again. “What am I looking for, Granger?”

“Page four.” Draco flicked to the appropriate page, scanned the contents, and froze. Oh, bloody hell. “Malfoy? Do you see the problem?”

“I do.” Draco gritted his teeth against an acidic invective. On reflection, Draco’s seduction of Potter might not have been the subtlest. Draco was only thankful that there was not a photograph to accompany the article about himself and Potter’s whereabouts during the past night.

“Did you do this, Malfoy? Did you contact the _Prophet_?”

“No.”

“Do you know who might’ve?”

“Unfortunately, not,” replied Draco, thinking _Longbottom_.

“Is it _true_?”

“Don’t you have the opportunity to pose that question directly to Potter?”

Granger sighed down the line. “He didn’t really answer it either. I probably don’t want to know, but I’m going to need one of you to pick an answer soon. I need to do some damage control. If you find out any details about the informant, can you let me know? There might not be anything I can do to stop them, but it’s always an advantage to know who we’re dealing with.”

“I will,” Draco promised as he replaced the handset.

Draco needed to think. His hotel was a close-knit community of staff; a family, any one of which Draco had difficulty believing would sell him out for a newspaper’s fee. Longbottom didn’t have any reason for loyalty to Draco, but if Potter was to be believed, then Longbottom was a trusted friend of his. 

A possibility that was awful in the extreme occurred to Draco. Potter wanted to lose the election, to ruin his own chances at becoming Minister. And Potter could have easily contacted the _Prophet_ to inform them of the juicy details. Potter could have used him as a means to an end.

The article was not a lengthy piece and the information was mostly accurate. The reporter detailed Potter’s stay at the hotel, and the mystery surrounding it, and culminated in speculation as to why Potter would choose to spend the evening in the arms of someone so entirely unworthy. The standard reference was made to Draco’s status as a Death Eater, despite the photographic records that the Wizengamot held clearly showing his unmarked left arm. Of course, the hotel was mentioned by name, and the fact that Draco was the proprietor was mentioned in several paragraphs. If this adversely affected Draco’s business, then Potter would be very sorry indeed.

Draco did consider the possibility that the informant might not have been Potter. Some people would merely try to make money from any information that dropped into their laps. To people like that, it did not often matter whether or not the information was true. It was nothing personal, just another potential scandal. Draco clung to that hope as he prepared what he would say when he saw Potter next.

The opportunity for that meeting came a few long hours later. Draco cornered Potter in his office and constructed so many powerful silencing charms around the area that he was sure it would take nothing less than a crack squad of elite Aurors to break them.

“Did you do this, Potter?” Draco demanded, echoing Granger’s earlier query while waving the now battered copy of the _Prophet_ for emphasis.

“Of course, I didn’t. And the article is inaccurate anyway. You weren’t a Death Eater.”

Potter seemed strangely calm. But Draco imagined that Potter was quite used to having his name in the newspaper, so perhaps it didn’t vex him. 

“But I’ll always be suspected of being one. Or having been. Concrete proof to the contrary is a mere technicality. But that’s not the point. The appearance of this article is somewhat suspicious.”

“What’s _suspicious_ is that your staff can’t be trusted!”

Draco leapt to the defence of his family. “Don’t presume, Potter. My staff are loyal to me. I have no reason to think that Longbottom would be, though.”

“Why? Because you pay them, Draco? I don’t imagine their wages are huge. And don’t accuse Neville, if he wanted to sell me out to the _Prophet_ , he has a lot of better stuff he could’ve told them about than us.”

“The wages I pay are more than sufficient,” Draco snarled, trying not to think about the ‘better’ stuff Potter was talking about. What he did know was that his personal attachment to his staff had led to a higher rate of pay than most would earn in similar employment. It was a vice of Draco’s, but he indulged it.

“So, what happened? The _Prophet’s_ reporters are good, but they’re not psychic. _Someone_ told them.”

“And I’ll find out who that was.” Draco was trying to believe Potter’s denial, but it wasn’t easy. To believe that Potter was innocent meant incriminating someone else, a person who was likely in Draco’s employ.

“Does it really matter?” asked Potter.

“Of course, it does!”

“Why? It’s just another story. There’ll be many more. We shouldn’t let this stop us from doing what we want to do.”

It was such a randomly foolish statement. “And what exactly _is_ it that we want to do?”

“Well, you seemed to enjoy yourself last night. And this morning. Or am I wrong?”

Yet again, Draco sighed. “That doesn’t mean it’s worth risking our respective positions.”

“But remember that I _want_ to risk my position.”

“I don’t want to risk _mine_.”

“What would you be risking, really? It’s not a secret that you own this place, and the publicity could work to your advantage.” 

The expression that Draco had privately termed Potter’s Official Smile bloomed across Potter’s features. Reassuring and persuasive, the effortless smile created the impression that there was nothing which Potter could not achieve. And although Draco saw enough of Potter’s frequent uncertainty to realise this confidence was a façade, Draco wasn’t convinced that he was entirely immune to its effects. In fact, he was beginning to think all that would be required to instate Potter in the role of Minister was a heady, regular measure of charming persona. It was a frightening thought.

“I don’t want to be a curiosity which the public comes to stare at,” Draco said in an attempt to resist.

“I know that. But I’m just saying that this publicity could be good. You’re not a Death Eater, that’s easily proven. It’s _been_ proven. You’re the proprietor of a hotel, and a damn good one.” Potter was venturing too close. The smile was morphing into a different grin, and Draco knew he should step back, but held his ground. “I can ensure that another article follows, one that only serves to sing the praises of this beautiful hotel,” whispered Potter, leaning in to kiss Draco’s cheek.

Draco thought this might be what insanity felt like, as he allowed Potter’s lips to move lower and nibble his neck.

…………

The morning edition of the _Daily Prophet_ proudly displayed another article on page two: a glowing review of the hotel. According to the article, Pear Tree Lodge was the place to be. A beautiful, welcoming paradise of warmth and hospitality. Draco agreed wholeheartedly.

“I need to go,” said Potter as he extracted himself from the sheets.

Draco yawned and stretched, making no attempt to do the same. A glance at the clock on his nightstand informed him that it was 5:00am, early even for Draco’s routine.

“It’s not even dawn yet, Potter.”

“I know… but Hermione has arranged quite a few things for today. An early meeting with my campaign team, followed by a lengthy hospital visit, then a speech in Diagon Alley at four. Individual press interviews after that, I think.”

“You sound absolutely thrilled.”

Potter’s exhalation was protracted. “It’s… it all feels so _fake_. No one really cares what I say, as long as it’s me saying it. All that’s important is that the Nation’s Mascot makes an appearance. I thought that I might be able to change something for the better, but the thrill of seeing a celebrity far outweighs the actual issues. I’m sick of it.”

“Then, like I said before, don’t _do_ it.”

“What else am I going to do, Draco?” Potter said as he rose to his feet and wandered into the bathroom. Draco was still in bed when Potter re-emerged, clad only in black trousers, bare toes peeking out from under the hems.

“Whatever you want to, Potter,” Draco replied, as if there hadn’t been a ten-minute gap in the conversation. “You just need to decide what you want and do that.”

“Okay. I’m wondering if for my first choice, I can choose you.”

Draco had lost the thread of the conversation. “Me for what?”

“This,” Potter made a sweeping gesture to encompass himself, Draco and the bed. “And maybe… other stuff.”

“What ‘other stuff’?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you’re willing to let me have.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond, and naturally that was the precise moment when the ringing started.

Potter swivelled in the direction of his chiming robes, clearly torn.

“Just answer it,” Draco prompted.

“But, I--”

“ _Answer_ it.”

Draco watched a half-dressed Potter stoop to locate the phone and marvelled at the strange tangent his life had spun off in. He didn’t pay attention to the call; there was only so much he could determine from hearing Potter’s side of the conversation anyway. In clipped tones, Potter finished the call promptly and stashed the phone in his trouser pocket.

“Potter?” Draco said, finally deciding to voice a query that had intrigued him. “Why do you use a Muggle mobile phone? There are other magical methods that you could utilise, and that would probably suit your purposes better.”

“Why do you use phones in the hotel?” Potter replied. “Because it’s easier,” he continued, answering his own question. “Only Hermione and a couple of other people have the number, so I don’t have so many people pestering me all day.”

Draco’s mind boggled at the notion that the volume of telephone calls Potter received on a daily basis was a _reduced_ number.

“Umm, Draco,” said Potter, switching suddenly back to his uncertain persona, “about what I was saying… you know, before. It’s up to you, but I wanted to… suggest it. As an option.”

Draco’s reprieve was apparently over. “I thought this was going to be strictly casual,” he mentioned, seeking clarification of exactly what Potter was suggesting.

“Only if we want it to be.”

“It’s too early in the morning for this, Potter. Go finish getting ready. Do you need stuff from your room?”

Draco ignored the slump of Potter’s shoulders, and the obvious disappointment. He hadn’t signed on for more than sex, so that’s all he was prepared to offer. It would not be wise for Draco to allow Potter to cultivate hope of anything else.

“No, this will do fine,” said Potter. “I have all that I need.” Draco really hoped that he did. “Unless you want to end this?” It was not necessary for Draco to request clarification.

Draco was certain to rue his answer. “No.”

“Maybe it’ll be worth it,” Potter suggested.

“I’m sure the hate mail will be very cheering.” Potter opened his mouth to protest, but Draco did not wait for it. “I can hear the Howlers already, Potter.”

…………

Over the next couple of weeks, Potter continued to bustle through days of endless activity, but also seemed to be regularly niggling at Draco’s life. Burrowing in. Settling. And for some inexplicable reason, Draco didn’t mind. Draco became accustomed to many little oddities of Potter’s, and Potter didn’t shy away from the more acidic elements of Draco’s personality. In fact, Potter tackled each one as it emerged as if it was a personal challenge.

It was a shallow arrangement - or it should have been. The events of Draco’s evenings had become reassuringly and excitingly predictable. Potter would loiter in the bar, chatting to Darren and nursing many cups of coffee, knowledgeable enough about Draco’s work not to barge in or offer an uninvited opinion on the way which Draco conducted his business. Draco worked late most nights, but he did it out of love of his job rather than necessity. He liked to make rounds of the hotel, conversing with guests, fixing minor or major issues as they occurred or simply admiring the fruits of his labour.

At twenty-three minutes past midnight, Draco made his way to the closed bar at the end of another day. He was amused to note that Darren had left Potter a steaming coffee pot and a supply of iced buns to sustain him during his wait, but he doubted that Potter had partaken of much of it; Potter’s arms were folded on the bar, cushioning Potter’s head. 

Draco tried to tread carefully as he approached, but Potter’s soft snores ceased abruptly and Potter’s eyes blinked open, focussing slowly.

“Sorry,” Draco said, feeling slightly guilty for the disturbance.

Potter stifled a yawn as he raised his head and straightened his spine. “Finished for the night?”

“Yes, I think that’ll do.”

As Draco neared, he saw Potter shake off the remnants of sleep, his eyes rapidly brightening. The quickness with which Potter could snap out of drowsiness frequently impressed Draco. “Come here,” Potter instructed, the timbre of his voice significantly lowered.

Draco glanced instinctively around him for a prying audience and found none before he reminded himself that this was not a secret. Most of the Wizarding world knew about their association, and although the public had a greatly divided opinion on the matter, neither Potter nor Draco had let it affect their lives. Or at least, they tried not to. Draco tried to ignore the deluge of daily articles speculating on his intentions towards or influence upon Potter, and Potter tried to convince Draco that it really didn’t matter at all.

When Draco stepped between Potter’s open legs, Potter sniffed as if to sample Draco’s scent. This was an odd habit of Potter’s, but Draco did not discourage it. Potter pressed his chest flush to Draco’s and stretched his neck up to claim a brief kiss before lowering down once more. Draco raised a hand, intending to touch Potter’s hair and drag him back up, but Potter curled fingers around Draco’s wrist, pressing his arm to his side. 

Draco had come to know the look that Potter currently wore well; that odd spark which shone in green eyes when Potter was drawing close to the end of his patience. Potter had clearly waited long enough to be entertained tonight. When that spark shone, it was as if Potter had an excess of adrenalin which he worked out of his system in imaginative ways. And generally, Draco was happy to let him.

Grinning, Potter wrapped both arms around Draco’s torso. Immersed as Draco was in the warm embrace, the crack of Apparation took him completely by surprise. Potter’s aim was impressive - both he and Potter landed with a soft whump onto Draco’s mattress.

“ _Fuck_ , Potter! Don’t do that!”

“Did I startle you?” Potter asked in an innocent voice, even as he crawled up to straddle Draco’s hips.

Draco sighed, but with amused exasperation. Potter didn’t waste time; his expertise in removing clothing was impressive but never rushed. Draco went willingly along with Potter’s fondness for foreplay, knowing that Potter would shortly encourage him to conclude the session with athletic fucking, before Potter would commence enthused chatter and start the proceedings all over again until Draco was too exhausted to carry on.

Fun times, indeed. But, for Draco, the best evenings were the quieter ones. Evenings when Potter would curl onto his side on the mattress, content to allow Draco to shift close behind him, spooning in a perfect fit, basking in warmth and muttering nonsensically about their respective days as they floated down to sleep. 

It was all suspiciously satisfying. 

…………

Draco’s latest morning treat was much worse than reporters could ever have been.

“Mr Malfoy,” a woman called across the foyer from behind him. “How lovely to see you again.”

In horrified recognition of the voice, Draco stopped dead in his tracks. A few seconds later, he had gathered the courage to turn around. Unfortunately, his suspicion was confirmed; Dolores Umbridge stood by the reception desk, oozing with a false smile and draped in pink wool and lace frills. Draco wondered if today might be a good day to feign a sudden debilitating illness. He didn’t think he had a smile wide enough to see him through this particular trauma. But it was already too late.

Draco stalled for time by greeting several passing guests as he slowly walked towards Umbridge.

“Yes, lovely,” he forced through gritted teeth when he reached her.

“I have an appointment with Mr Potter in a few minutes, so I can’t chat for long.”

Apparently, Potter was set on bringing all and sundry into Draco’s hotel. Lamenting that Pear Tree Lodge used to be such a tranquil establishment, Draco set his smile the best he could and said, “What a shame that is.”

“I am glad though, that we have this chance to briefly talk,” she said, subtly ushering him away from the desk. He allowed himself to be steered towards a quiet corner of the foyer. Draco wasn’t especially keen to discover why Umbridge would want to talk to him, but she continued, “I understand that you have been spending a great deal of time in Mr Potter’s company lately.” Since their association was plastered all over the _Prophet_ , Draco acknowledged the statement with a nod, but didn’t offer a comment. “This… concerns me,” she added. “And Minister Scrimgeour.”

That was not good. Draco had so far been successful in dealing with the attentions of the press, but drawing the attention of the presiding Minister for Magic was an entirely more daunting matter.

“Really?” he answered, hoping that Umbridge would elaborate without more prompting.

“Yes. The Minister feels that Mr Potter’s ability to perform his duties has been adversely affected by unproductive media attention of late. And of course, the cause of that attention is yourself. Minister Scrimgeour would prefer that Mr Potter was able to dedicate himself to his campaign without further distraction.”

Something about Umbridge’s concern didn’t ring true to Draco.

“You have been discussing this matter with the Minister, Madam Umbridge?”

Her lips formed a thin impression of a smile that was faintly disturbing. “Yes.”

“But… wouldn’t Potter’s lack of dedication be of benefit to your own campaign?”

“It could be.”

“So why would you be concerned enough to discuss it with the Minister?”

“My relationship with Minister Scrimgeour exists on a balance of trust, Mr Malfoy. He understands my… desire to step into office, but I assured him that I shall discuss this matter with yourself and therefore, I have.”

“To what end?”

“My loyalty to the Minister outweighs my own personal goals.”

“I see. And has the Minister mentioned any… incentive for my co-operation that I should take into account? Or anything which might be of… detriment to me, if I do not?”

Umbridge looked scandalised. Draco wasn’t buying it for a second.

“Of course not! He merely asked me to mention the problem to you, in the hope that you would empathise, and allow Mr Potter to continue with his work undisturbed.”

“Thank you for bringing the issue to my attention. I will consider the suggestion,” he said, privately deciding to do nothing of the sort. Draco would not allow anyone to instruct him what to do in his personal life. Granted, his personal life had become a tad more public than he was used to, but neither Umbridge nor the Minister had the right to dictate his actions. It occurred to Draco that being uncooperative to the Minister’s wishes might prove to be unwise, and that his and Potter’s dalliance may be too trivial for the bother, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to bow down. It was a matter of principle.

Thankfully, Draco was not required to listen to Umbridge’s reply, since Potter chose that moment to round the corner from the adjoining corridor and enter the foyer.

Potter beamed as he approached them, looking every bit the man who had rolled out of bed, slung on expensive robes and not even bothered to brush his hair. Draco had been reluctant to leave a sleeping Potter alone in bed that morning. Work had beckoned, but Draco had granted himself a few minutes to admire the way the slats of sunshine through the shuttered window had curved and slanted into the nooks and slopes of Potter’s bare form. 

“Morning, Draco,” Potter greeted when he reached them, 

“Mr Potter,” Umbridge answered in Draco’s place. “Are you ready for our appointment?”

“Yes, certainly. I’m glad you could meet with me today. I imagine that you must have incredible demands on your time, so I very much appreciate it.” The Official Smile spread with stunning ease across Potter’s face. In response, Umbridge smiled with blatant dishonesty. “Draco, can we please have tea in the lounge?”

That was hardly a taxing request, so Draco nodded. “Yes, Lucy will provide refreshments shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Potter offered Umbridge his arm. Umbridge wrapped herself around the proffered limb without hesitation and trotted beside Potter as he led her into the lounge. 

Draco observed with growing interest, sensing an unknown plot afoot. Potter’s dual personality remained enthralling to Draco. This was the man who the electorate saw, a composed Potter, in absolute control. This Potter could be relied upon to save the day. And this Potter stood a viable chance of becoming Minister. 

Anxious to pry about the meeting, Draco waited impatiently for the evening to arrive.

“Potter, what’re you up to?” he asked when it finally did.

“I’m not up to anything,” Potter replied, with utterly unconvincing innocence.

“Of course, because Dolores Umbridge is a good friend of yours.”

“Maybe she is.”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing to tell. Not yet. Except this: I found out who sold that story about us to the _Prophet_.”

Draco’s excitement piqued. “Who?”

“Umbridge.”

“What? She wasn’t even there!”

“She didn’t need to be. Turns out she had a tracking charm to let her know my daily activities. Something complicated that I don’t really understand, but Neville discovered it, traced its origins and deactivated it. Luckily, he doesn’t think it had been activated for very long.”

The fact that it had been activated at all did not seem very lucky to Draco. He swallowed down his rising nausea. “How did he find out about that?”

“He isn’t a private investigator for nothing.”

“He’s a _what_? I thought he was your publicist.”

“As I remember, you actually thought he was my boyfriend.”

“Potter, you do realise that you could have Umbridge disqualified from the election for this?”

“What would be the point of that? I don’t want to narrow down the competition.”

“But she could have compromised the other -”

“Neville arranged for the other candidates to be subtly checked for the charm, but apparently I’m the only one she saw as enough of a threat to cast it on. But it doesn’t matter, I told her that I knew about it. In response, she produced some interesting private images which she tried to blackmail me with.”

“Bitch. What did you do?”

“I let her,” Potter grinned. 

Try as he might, Draco couldn’t comprehend how being blackmailed was a good thing, but Potter refused to elaborate further.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco was lying in Potter’s arms, watching the faint glow of moonlight through the curtains and trying to decide if Potter was worth his defiance. He wondered if the message had even been genuine; Umbridge may have reason to make Draco believe there was a threat where none actually existed, although Draco was at a loss as to what that could be. But since Potter had declared that Scrimgeour had been the driving influence behind Potter’s current political status, it was possible that the Minister would not be pleased by anything which might hurt Potter’s chances.

The election was nearing its conclusion. Whatever Potter did now would certainly have a bearing on the result. Potter seldom spoke of the election, and Draco didn’t press him to. It was Potter’s decision whether to continue to participate, Draco wouldn’t try to persuade him either way. Although if Potter was victorious, Draco found it difficult to imagine that there would still be a place in Potter’s life for him.

Potter’s lips brushed against Draco’s ear, jostling him from his introspection.

“Draco?” 

“Mmm?” Draco mumbled, nudging at Potter until Draco’s erection was comfortably where it should be: next to Potter’s. Slowly rocking, enjoying the slightly scratchy slide of his cock against Potter’s pubic hair, not to mention the rest, Draco thought that _yes_ , at the moment it was worth it. But libido was a fickle thing.

“Can I be on top tonight?”

That was enough to freeze Draco’s movement. And he knew in a moment it was going to be directly responsible for the wilting of his cock. 

“No,” was Draco’s instinctive reply.

“Why not? In the interest of an equal opportunities relationship.”

“I don’t do equal opportunities, Potter.”

“Never?”

“Absolutely never.”

If Potter’s expression was an accurate gauge, the truth was dawning. “So, have you… never?”

Draco didn’t want to admit this, but he assured himself that it was nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone had personal preferences, and his preference was to remain firmly on top. He took a deep breath.

“No. I’ve _never_ ,” he said with just a touch more snarl than he’d intended. “I wouldn’t like it.”

Potter didn’t seem to mind the snarl.

“How do you know that, if you’ve never tried?”

More persuasive men than Potter had tried to coerce Draco into bottoming. It was not going to happen. But Draco had not reckoned on Potter’s wide-eyed doe stare. Draco didn’t want to do this; but Draco also didn’t want to disappoint Potter.

Draco’s initial instinct won. “I don’t do that.”

“Why?”

“I’m not… naturally submissive, Potter.”

“Is that what you think it is? Submitting?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not if you don’t want it to be. We can do this and still let you be in control. Just to see if you like it,” added Potter in a placating tone. “If you _don’t_ like it, then we can stop.” The doe stare was unrelenting, and Draco suddenly stacked this up as yet another inevitability. “Do you trust me?” asked Potter, and effectively sealed the deal.

“I… want to,” Draco replied, again strangely anxious not to disappoint. He remembered when he would have considered merely bringing another man to orgasm sufficient not to be disappointing. Draco wondered when he had started to care about the more complex feelings involved in coupling.

“Lie on your stomach.”

For a few seconds, the signals that usually instructed Draco’s limbs to move failed and he was rooted to the spot. But a long inhale and sheer force of will shifted Draco’s body to comply. Draco concentrated on breathing, in and essentially out, when Potter nudged at his thighs, urging them to spread. Draco’s limbs locked again, but a kiss to the dip of his lower back was surprisingly soothing, and his legs slid apart. The slide of Potter’s finger became moistened as it descended the line of Draco’s crack, a tiny but breathless display of wandless power. Draco didn’t point it out; he was too busy burrowing his face into a pillow as the digit slid lower.

“Potter,” Draco began, but Potter interrupted.

“Ssh. Just feel this,” Potter whispered as his finger circled Draco’s anus.

Draco had conducted this procedure sufficiently on other men to be well practised in the mechanics, but being on the receiving end of preparation was an entirely different experience. Potter performed each stage unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world. When the first eventually finger breached Draco, it did hurt, but Potter clasped Draco’s hand and held him through it and the additional fingers, encouraging with small random kisses to sensitive spots: the nape of Draco’s neck, the angle of his shoulder blade, the top of his inner thigh.

When Potter’s hands suddenly left Draco’s body, Draco was not ashamed to beg for their return. Draco could feel beads of sweat dripping down his sides as Potter nudged Draco to roll over and face him. 

“See, it’s not so bad,” Potter grinned. Draco noted that the grin was topped with a smatter of perspiration on Potter’s top lip. Potter seemed to be holding himself in check, breathing quiet pants as he assessed Draco’s reaction.

“It wasn’t,” agreed Draco, unsure what to do next. Potter’s reclining position begged Draco to pay due attention to all that naked skin, make Potter squirm beautifully until he pleaded to be fucked. But that was clearly not Potter’s current intention, so he felt like he was flailing in uncharted territory.

“Just relax,” Potter cooed, positioning himself on his back. To Draco, that manoeuvre indicated more relaxation for Potter than himself, but Potter rested his head on the pillow and arranged his lean body in a straight line on the centre of the bed. “And climb on.”

Draco’s eyes widened. He wasn’t clueless; he understood what Potter was asking him to do. But he still anticipated that lowering his body down onto Potter’s bobbing cock would be painful.

“It’s okay,” assured Potter, his hand wrapped around his own cock, coating it in more glistening moisture with each stroke. Watching Potter do that was usually a captivating sight, but Draco stared, trying to hide his trepidation. Potter was big. In truth, bigger than Draco, which had never been an issue before. Now, all Draco could think of was the length and girth of that appendage; foreskin taut and drawn back to reveal the engorged, glistening tip. But Draco was not a quitter, he could do this. In a fluid moment of confidence which even Draco didn’t believe, he pulled himself up to kneel, shuffled beside Potter, and swung his leg over to the other side of Potter’s hips.

Draco’s erection was wilting slightly due to anxiety, but Draco placed both palms on Potter’s chest and, balancing on trembling arms, he manoeuvred his buttocks over Potter’s groin, being careful to maintain a safe distance between himself and the tip of Potter’s cock. Draco noticed that Potter didn’t let go of his penis; he held it upright and proud. Just waiting for Draco. Although Potter’s chest rose and fell ever more rapidly under Draco’s palms, he made no suggestion of urgency. But Draco couldn’t stall forever. Another steadying breath gained him a little bit of calm as he lowered. The head of Potter’s cock nudged between Draco’s buttocks. Draco shifted his hips in minute adjustments, searching for the correct alignment. His cheeks reddened in embarrassment as he repeatedly failed to hit the right spot.

Potter’s free hand rested on Draco’s left hip. “Wait. Breathe.”

That was an absurdly unhelpful suggestion. “I _am_ breathing.”

“Yes, you’re almost hyperventilating. Take it slow. Relax,” Potter cooed again as he pressed his palm firmer against Draco’s hip and aligned them both perfectly. The tip of Potter’s cock pushed against Draco’s stretched opening and Draco’s body obligingly did the opposite of relaxing. “ _Relax_. You’re clenching.”

Draco couldn’t deny it. Clenching was an understatement; Draco’s entire body was tensed in what Draco was loathed to admit was fear. Draco couldn’t do this. He leant to his left, intending to swing his leg back over Potter and dismount. But Potter was quick. He flicked a hand out, fingers gripping Draco’s wrist in a gentle restraint which Draco could easily choose to break free of. Draco remained where he was and let Potter keep his grip.

“If you really don’t want to do this, then we don’t need to,” Potter reminded him. “But I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“ _You_ want to. I don’t… don’t know _how_ to do this,” Draco admitted, all trace of façade lost. He hadn’t confessed such a huge personal failing in years, it grated against his independence.

“Can I help?”

Draco nodded, and literally placed his safety in Potter’s hands when Potter took hold of both Draco’s hips and pressed down, just slightly, directing the movement, but not forcing. If Draco wanted to stop, then the touch was light enough not to prevent it. As he descended, Draco felt his anus stretch, trying to accommodate Potter’s girth. It hurt, but not unbearably. Draco let his head drop forward, focussing on the bare chest below him as he was guided downwards, inch by inch, Potter pausing at regular occasions to allow Draco to become used to the intrusion. It wasn’t until he rested on Potter’s solid form that he noticed that Potter hadn’t been pressing him down anymore; the last few inches Draco had achieved all by himself.

The realisation that he had the entire length of a cock inside him made Draco’s mind reel. And apparently also his body, judging by the sudden steadying pressure of Potter’s hand at his lower back. 

“I’ve got you, Draco,” Potter reassured, and nervous though he still was, the thought quelled some of Draco’s fears. He wanted to be here. He wanted Potter to have him. “You okay?” Draco nodded. “Lift yourself, just a little.”

Draco knew how this worked, but again _doing_ it was certainly more difficult. With a controlled effort, Draco used his thighs and arms for leverage to raise himself by scant inches before letting his body sink down again.

Potter appeared to appreciate the manoeuvre. “That’s… good,” whispered Potter with such reverence that he spurred Draco on to do it again. “Oh, _fuck_ , Draco. Yes,” Potter agreed as Draco attempted to find a gradual rhythm.

“Slow, slow… shit, good… it’s bloody good,” Potter babbled.

It wasn’t an awful sensation; in fact, the more Draco moved, the easier it became, and the more enjoyable. At one point, Draco circled his hips experimentally, and the resulting spike of pleasure took his breath away.

“ _Fuck_!” Draco almost screeched, and suspected that he may have discovered his own prostate. “Oh… yes,” Draco moaned, angling himself to repeat the experience a few times and growing suddenly impatient for release. “Potter?”

Potter scrunched his face as Draco rose and fell, and Draco was gratified to see the effort it took for him to focus and reply even with an incoherent, “Uh… huh?” 

“I’m not going to go slow anymore.”

Potter’s grin made a reappearance, but Potter didn’t offer further response.

The rhythm which Draco created was probably faster than he should have attempted on his first time, but it was irresistible to be the cause of Potter’s extreme reaction. Potter bucked beneath him and writhed as Draco rose and fell and rocked, ever faster. So intent was Draco on eliciting more pants, more moans and more sweat from Potter’s brow and chest that he only recalled his own neglected cock when Potter’s fingers wrapped around it, stroking quickly from base to tip. It was good. Too good; it took approximately three strokes before Draco climaxed. For a moment, Draco lamented that he had failed to bring Potter to orgasm first, but Potter shuddered beneath him even as Draco still spurted, and slickness filled Draco’s arse. 

Sated and spent, all Draco wanted to do was stay exactly where he was, and Potter indulged him for long minutes of slow gentle kissing. But when Draco felt himself begin to topple to the side in exhaustion, Potter guided him down to the mattress and linked their limbs in a warm and sticky embrace. Draco’s eyes weren’t going to stay open for much longer, but it didn’t matter because Potter already seemed to be nuzzling in for sleep.

“That was… _you_ were amazing,” Potter whispered, his exhales ruffling the hair on Draco’s forehead.

“I was,” Draco agreed, and drifted off to sleep with the sound of Potter’s quiet laughter ringing in his ears.

…………

The next day was relatively quiet in the hotel, so Draco decided to do something unusual: he took the afternoon off. Potter was speaking at a campaign rally in a park in London, and Draco was curious about how Potter’s campaign was faring. 

Draco wandered through the crowd, searching. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for; the familiar ring tone led his way. Draco gradually moved into visual range, just in time to see Potter flip the phone closed. Potter was standing on a grassy area at the side of the podium, beaming his trustworthy smile. In an uncharacteristically sentimental moment, Draco lifted the camera that he’d brought with him, zoomed and focussed on his subject, and froze at what he saw. The man beside Potter was standing close as Potter chattered to a woman who Draco knew had considerable influence in the upper social circles. The man’s hand rested upon the slope of Potter’s lower back, fingers splayed in a gentle stroking at the base of Potter’s spine. There was no possible way that Potter could not feel that caress. And absolutely no possibility that Potter could have misinterpreted the kiss which the man pressed to his lips. Potter’s mouth opened in response, chaste enough for polite company but relaxed enough to indicate a certain closeness, a comfortable intimacy.

It should not be this difficult to breathe. Draco flitted through the memory of that morning: Potter had woken beside him, attentive and more affectionate than usual as he had kissed Draco into wakefulness. Draco had let himself believe that Potter had been displaying acknowledgement of what Draco had allowed him to do during the previous evening. 

Draco’s hands shook as he held the camera and brought a trembling finger down on the button to capture the image; he didn’t ever want to forget this. Neither of them had requested exclusivity, and in fact Potter had initially suggested that the basis of their relationship remain casual, but Draco had believed they had moved on from that tentative beginning. Draco had given Potter something he had never allowed anyone else to have. Somewhere during those nights in Potter’s embrace, and all those gloriously relaxed mornings, Draco had forgotten the deal. He had no claim on Potter; he did not even have the right to be upset. 

The man smiled, might have been laughing, and the hand ascended in a smooth slide up Potter’s back, and down again to settle lower than before. Still Potter did not move away, in fact the only motion Draco could ascertain from Potter was the slightest lean to the right, towards the smiling stranger.

Draco took a couple of steps towards them, the notion of a confrontation egging him on, but he stopped just as abruptly. There was no point. He could rant about this, or he could utilise cool detachment. Either way, Draco thought that the Minister would be pleased because Draco was about to do exactly what Scrimgeour wanted.

Disappointment constricted Draco’s chest as he spun away.

…………

“How did the rally go?” Draco enquired from the safety behind the reception desk when Potter returned to the hotel later that day. 

“It went well, I think. I’m trying to take your advice, make people listen to what I need to say.”

“And what’s that?”

“Lots of issues, they’re endless. Homelessness, employment, economy… probably all boring subjects, but I’m trying to generate interest in my ideas.”

“Good for you.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Potter rose an inch onto the balls of his feet, obviously intending to kiss Draco over the desk. Draco stepped back. Potter descended back to his heels. “You having a bad day?”

“Yes. Actually, I am. But I plan to take steps to improve it.”

“Okay… maybe I should leave you to that. Unless it’s something I can help with?” The sharp shake of Draco’s head indicated the negative. “Well, I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Unfortunately, you won’t. I’m going to be busy tonight, Potter.”

“Oh. Well, I can wait. I don’t have an early -”

“There’s no point. I might be able to talk to you tomorrow.”

“Might?”

“That’s correct. Good night.” Aware that Potter would attempt to continue the conversation, Draco ended it with the crack of Apparation.

…………

Draco had spent most of the night in turmoil, unsure what action he should take. He swung between severing all contact with Potter and ejecting him from the hotel or taking no action at all. It would be feasible to continue as they had been, indulging in sex without commitment whenever the urge struck them. But the problem with that option was that Draco had not been indulging in meaningless sex for a while now. Perhaps not even from the first time. Draco had allowed himself to become attached, and that attachment was not allowing him to view the issue objectively. He felt betrayed, cheated and used, and no amount of logical reasoning was lessening those feelings.

So, as a consequence of his confused, restless night, Draco emerged onto the main floor of the hotel, still without a clue what he was going to do. And Potter was either too observant or too bloody nosy just to let Draco’s misery exist unmentioned.

“You look exhausted,” Potter had observed, slipping himself into place beside Draco on the sofa in his office when Draco had taken a break from his busy morning to sooth his nerves with a mug of coffee. The old sofa groaned as Potter settled in, getting comfortable, and Draco felt anything but soothed.

Staring straight ahead at a painting on the opposite wall, Draco replied, “I’m fine.”

Potter was clearly not convinced. “What’s wrong, Draco? Really?”

“Nothing, everything’s fine.”

“Tell me.”

Draco sighed, resigned. He had been avoiding the subject for hours, knowing that it was only a matter of time before Potter cornered him, and he was tired of waiting for the inevitable. 

Draco smirked, it made him feel better. “I attended your rally yesterday, but I didn’t stay for long.”

“Oh? I didn’t see you.”

“I know. You were busy, so I didn’t like to interrupt.”

“You wouldn’t have been interrupting.”

“I would’ve, I’m sure about that. You were deep in conversation with a lady I’ve briefly had the acquaintance of, and a very attractive man whom I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to. Who would that’ve been?”

“I’m… not sure.”

“I’m surprised, because the impression I got was that you seemed to know each other intimately.”

Potter tensed beside him, and Draco knew that Potter understood.

“He just… he doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Really.”

“Yes, I… he’s, he _was_ my boyfriend.”

Draco couldn’t decide if humiliation or anger was rising to the surface more quickly. He made a concerted effort to keep his voice level. He could not turn his head to look at Potter. “Your boyfriend? The one you supposedly left?”

“I _did_ leave him. But he just turned up, and I didn’t want to cause a scene in front of all those people.”

That sounded entirely implausible. “You expect me to believe that the one day, the one _moment_ that I chose to attend one of your events, that’s the exact moment that your _boyfriend_ turned up?”

Potter flushed, clearly guilty. “Umm, no… he was there all day.”

“And the other days?”

“Some of them. I wanted t -”

Draco felt as if the breath had been smacked out of him. He didn’t want to hear the rest. “I don’t want to know. But don’t worry about it, Potter. This experience has helped me to more fully understand my role in your life. This event and how I feel about it doesn’t matter in the great scheme of things. Have your boyfriend, parade him in front of the masses to reaffirm the purity of your image or whatever else you feel like. I don’t mind, and I’m sure he won’t either. We’re all just fuck toys to the Great Almighty Potter, after all.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Who mentioned anything about fair? I’m not a fair person. And from what I’ve seen, neither are you. Maybe that makes us perfect for each other, or maybe not.”

“Whatever you saw… it wasn’t what it seemed to be.”

“No? I thought your tongue was definitely far enough down his throat to be incriminating.”

“Draco. Please listen to me,” Potter began in what sounded like a confusingly heartfelt tone, but Draco couldn’t stand it. 

“I think we’ve covered the important points. Please feel free to continue your stay here, paying guests are always welcome. But do not come near me again.” 

When Draco stood, Potter followed suit so rapidly that he collided with Draco’s elbow. To Draco’s satisfaction, Potter stumbled, but unfortunately regained his balance before he fell. Potter extended a hand towards Draco’s arm, perhaps to bestow a pleading caress, but Draco Apparated before Potter’s fingers could reach him.

Draco’s arrival into his suite did not go smoothly. It was a wonder to him that he hadn’t splinched himself. As it was, he landed with such uncontrolled force that he toppled, almost cracking his skull on the edge of the coffee table as he fell to the floor.

He pulled himself to a sitting position on the carpet. There didn’t seem to be an urgent need to stand. It was done. Draco had no doubt that Potter could revert to the life he’d had. Draco might find it more difficult, but he’d eventually recover from this emotional upheaval. He had simply become confused, tempted by the lure of close companionship. They had never been a good match; it was a pity that it had taken them so long to remember that. An earlier realisation would have spared them both. Their incompatibility had been obvious, but that certainty had somehow become muddled along the way. At least, for Draco. Apparently, nothing had been muddled for Potter. 

But when Draco stripped away all the internal, moping bullshit versus the rational practicalities that plagued his thoughts, all that was left was a foreign feeling of _hurt_.

…………

By the next morning, Potter had checked out of Pear Tree Lodge. Draco didn’t see him go; the only indication of Potter’s absence was the returned room key hanging on the hook labelled with the number thirteen.

Draco was staring at it when a voice startled him.

“You’re a ruddy idiot, Draco Malfoy.”

“Excuse me?”

Samantha’s glower was uncharacteristic, but highly effective.

“Why aren’t you chasing after Mr Potter, pleading for him to come back here?”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“You already said that.” Draco glared. Samantha just glared back. “You should’ve seen the state of him when he checked out of here this morning.”

“I can only hope that he was distraught. Positively _in_ consolable.”

“Close, I think.” Samantha replied, ignoring Draco’s sarcasm. She always had been too good at that. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“If the look on your face is anything to judge by, I think it matters a lot. Maybe you should speak to him.”

“No, I really shouldn’t.”

“Well, it’s up to you. But I know how you can sometimes jump to conclusions about stuff.”

On reflection, Draco may have been judgemental; he hadn’t listened to Potter’s protests. But he was still certain that if he had listened, all he would have heard was a litany of excuses. Or worse, lies. The untruths which Potter may have spouted would have been insulting to them both. This was a learning experience for Draco: to let rationale guide him. Logic, not emotion was the key to a successful life.

Except, looking at Samantha’s concerned face, Draco had to admit that he had let much more than logic guide him for years now. He had abandoned his precious Malfoy pride on many occasions without giving it a second thought when someone in this building had been in need of his understanding or support. Pride was important to him, but it was no longer an essential rule to live by.

But none of that was relevant. “I didn’t jump to conclusions. It was clear enough.”

“What was?”

“It’s here for the entire world to see,” Draco snarled, tossing that morning’s edition of the _Prophet_ onto the desk. It had completed Draco’s humiliation. The picture included with the article was far superior to the one Draco had taken. The photographer had captured the moment perfectly. Potter’s mouth opening to welcome the other man’s, his body leaning in as the man’s tongue flicked out briefly, only to stop and loop back to the beginning and repeat the kiss in an endless mockery of Draco’s trust.

Samantha surveyed the photograph, jaw tensing. “I can see how this would be… upsetting, but he seemed to make you happy.”

“Potter is a lying cu -”

“Don’t call him things that you’ll regret later. Go _speak_ to him. You’ve been alone for long enough.”

The statement startled Draco. “I haven’t been alone.”

“Looking after all of us doesn’t count, Draco. Shall I let the staff know that you’re taking the rest of the day off to deal with an urgent matter?”

Draco only had himself to blame for Samantha’s tactics; she had learned well under his influence. But Draco was still stronger.

“No. Such self-indulgences will no longer be necessary.”

Presuming that the masses would be ecstatic now that Potter had seen the light and returned to his rightful place beside his respectable boyfriend, Draco didn’t bother to read the accompanying article; instead, he cast an Incendio and burned the newspaper to a pile of ashes. The consequent emergency repair of the reception desk provided a distraction for the next two hours, and soothing Samantha’s wrath took most of the rest of the day.

…………

During the next week, it took mere seconds to treat the several letters from Potter to the same treatment, although Samantha insisted that any disposals take place far from her precious desk. Actually, she tried to insist that he read the contents, but Draco was not interested in anything Potter had to say. 

“Mr Malfoy?” Darren carefully spoke as the edge of Draco’s trembling hand overturned the inkpot, spilling ink onto the immaculate desk in his office. At least Samantha was unlikely to shout at him for that. “Are you… is everything all right?”

Straightening his shoulders, Draco cleaned the mess with a wave of his wand.

“Yes. Everything’s fine, Darren. Go back to the bar.”

“Will Mr Potter be joining you again soon?”

“No.” Draco curled his lips, tried for a smile, and succeeded. It was time to accept that this association with Potter could be relegated to the past.

“Do you need to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Well, we don’t need to talk, if you’d prefer not to.”

A hand rested upon Draco’s shoulder, sliding up towards his neck. Draco swung his head round and glared, but the hand didn’t retreat, instead fingers shifted and began to knead at knots of tense muscles. Closing his eyes, Draco let himself become aware of the pleasurable caress, and of the wall of heat that pressed against the left side of his body as Darren stepped nearer. 

When Draco opened his eyes, he saw that Darren’s gaze was glowing with desire, and his mouth was dangerously close. 

Draco couldn’t help but compare. The slide of Darren’s lips was gentle, while Potter’s had been assertive, demanding. Darren’s hands were smooth while Potter’s had been calloused. It just wasn’t right. At all. 

Breaking the kiss was simple; accepting his real reasons for it was not.

…………

When the results of the election were announced a week later, Draco was present in the large, chilly park to witness the momentous event, in no doubt whatsoever that Potter would win. And angry though he was, he couldn’t begrudge Potter the victory. 

The competition who had dared to join Potter in the race was pathetic; the other candidates looked as if they had been scraped up from the jumble sale of forgotten politicians. Or worse, would-be politicians. Candidates were lined up like unorganised contestants in a beauty pageant and as he perused the selection a disturbing sight met Draco’s eyes; Dolores Umbridge wore an expression of frightening smugness. But the scariest part of the election was that Potter truly seemed to be the best candidate. 

There was so much pomp and circumstance; it was unnecessary in the extreme. Draco stood amongst the crowd next to the warded railing which served as a barrier from the stage, fiddling with the strap of his camera, impatient for events to move along. The organisers seemed to be drawing it out for as long as possible. Draco didn’t see why they couldn’t just appoint someone to rip open a golden envelope, announce Potter’s victory and let everyone go home.

Draco raised the camera to once again frame Potter through the lens. A small adjustment focussed his subject into crystal clarity. Draco pressed his finger down and caught it; the nervous expression he’d known would be there, waiting to briefly leak out from under Potter’s façade of expectant, charming calm. But it was impossible not to admire the man on the stage. Everyone’s hero, and shortly to become the most powerful man in Britain. Draco had no doubt, it was a predictable outcome. Umbridge whispered something into Potter’s ear, inaudible from this distance and through the excited thrum of the crowd. Potter treated her to a broad smile, well-practised and polite, and Draco’s chest swelled with pride. A small pang accompanied the pride, but Draco ignored it. Potter was not Draco’s anymore. If he ever had been. 

But after the results were eventually announced, the only person in the room who did not look shocked by the outcome was Potter. He stood at the edge of the stage, beaming as if all his dreams had just come true. The reason why Jones was beaming centre stage was likely because all of his dreams _had_ come true.

As Jones stepped up to the podium to take his place beside Scrimgeour, and the crowd erupted in an uncertain cheer of triumph, Potter wandered off the stage with the other failed candidates. Shocked and trying to process the news, Draco raised his camera simply for something to occupy his restless hands, framed another picture, and Potter’s gaze locked with his through the lens. Potter’s smile visibly trembled and vanished. 

Draco left soon after and returned to the comfort of his family.

…………

Draco’s wand was vibrating. Sighing, he dragged himself to reception to answer the call. He didn’t get far before Lucy intercepted him.

“Mr Potter’s in the foyer, asking to see you.”

Of course. It was inevitable, as always. When he arrived in the foyer, Draco noticed Potter standing by the front desk, looking awkward beside a cheerful Samantha. But Draco was not that easily forgiving.

Potter turned as Draco approached, but the beginning of his smile faltered when he noticed the aggression in Draco’s stride.

“Why are you back, Potter?”

“To talk. But not out here.”

“Then we won’t talk,” Draco shrugged, turning away. 

Predictably, Potter did not approve of that plan. “Draco, this -”

Draco didn’t wait to hear the rest. He was proud that the line of his shoulders stayed firm as he walked and determinedly did not stop until he had reached his office. Only when he had entered the sanctity of that room did he pivot to see if Potter had followed. To both Draco’s relief and his irritation, Potter had.

Potter cleared the door just before Draco slammed it shut with a wave of his wand. 

“Talk,” Draco spat.

“You told me that I should figure out what I want, and strive to have it,” said Potter quickly, as if he feared he would be ejected from the office at any second.

That was a very real possibility. Draco didn’t sit, instead he turned his back to his desk and stood, his stance deliberately hostile. “And you worked that out, didn’t you?”

Potter stood tall against Draco’s hostility, but didn’t match it. “Yes, I did.”

“Well, what we want isn’t always what we receive.”

Potter walked to the couch and perched on the edge, looking up at Draco with a hopeful gaze. Draco’s stomach fluttered with nerves. “I’m sorry, Draco. But I’m trying to fix this.”

Draco sighed. “What do you want?”

“You.”

Draco’s heart did not swell with joy. This was too much, Draco wanted to go back to his busy life and forget everything else. “I’m not on offer, Potter.”

“Well, I’m offering myself. It’s up to you whether you take me. What do _you_ want, Draco?”

“It’s entirely irrelevant.”

“I think it is. I know that I hurt you, but I needed something solid to seal Jones’ victory. I’d already assured Umbridge that I’d relax my campaign and actively support her views and issues.”

Draco chose to disregard the first issue and concentrated on the more practical subject. “Did she even realise how hypocritical her pet issues were?”

“She didn’t seem to, but many other people have long memories. They didn’t like my support of Umbridge’s beliefs, but it wasn’t enough to turn the tide against me. But the confusion caused by my changed views allowed Jones to come into the spotlight as an independent voice. Jones just needed a chance to be heard. The other… thing was a spur of the moment decision. When my ex kept turning up I should’ve made it clear that I was no longer available… and I was going to, but when he kissed me,” Potter shrugged, “it seemed the ideal solution. Portraying me as unfaithful, even to you, ensured that I’d never win. The public aren’t that forgiving, even to heroes. They feel secure with someone who’s honest and dependable. Which was suddenly neither me nor Umbridge. The timing was perfect, so close to the end of the election. I was going to explain, but you… leapt to your own conclusion.”

“ _Even_ to me?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I take it all back, every insult I’ve ever thrown at you. None of them are strong enough to do you justice.”

“Me and you… we weren’t a _couple_ , Draco. You kept reminding me of that.” The glint in Potter’s eyes indicated anger. Good, Draco could deal with an angry Potter much more easily.

“And I can see why we weren't.”

Potter’s anger seemed to evaporate. “I should’ve told you before I did it.”

“No, you shouldn’t have done it at all. You shouldn’t have used me as a means to _throw an election_. But like you said, we weren’t a couple. Life doesn’t always move along that quickly.”

“I really hadn't meant to. But what do you mean about life?”

“Again, it’s irrelevant.”

“Do mean that you’d hoped that we… could maybe become one?”

“The notion of possible romance is entirely lost on me.”

“But that doesn’t mean that we couldn’t have, or try to have… something.”

“If you’re echoing your original suggestion that got us both into this mess, forget it. It clearly doesn’t work.”

“No, I’m not. But I can see _why_ it didn’t work. For either of us.”

“I don’t want to analyse the reasons, Potter. Besides, it seemed to work fine for you.”

“No, it didn’t. I didn’t - I thought that you wouldn’t care very much about what I did with anyone else. That’s the impression you gave me. But I wanted you to care, at least a bit. Looking back, maybe I should’ve told you that. But you've never even called me by my first _name_ and then, afterwards… it looked like you did care, after all. But by that time, it was too late for me to take it back. Proof of what I’d done was already evident, like I’d wanted it to be, but I hadn’t meant to _hurt_ you and I couldn -”

“Potter, you’re babbling.”

“I know. Shit. When I rehearsed that, it sounded much better.”

The notion of Potter rehearsing a speech especially for Draco and failing to smoothly deliver it was almost amusing. Almost. “Maybe you should’ve practised it a little more. Or told it to someone else.”

“But that’s the problem, Draco. There’s no one else I want to tell it to. I haven’t wanted to tell anyone else stuff about me for a while. That was one of the reasons why I left and ended up here, I suppose. There was nobody in my life who I felt compelled to really talk to. But I started to talk to you and I still don’t quite understand why, but I’ve quit trying to work that out. What I have worked out is that by not properly communicating what I want and trying not to let people down by withdrawing from the election, I let you down instead. And that's the worst thing I could've done.”

“And what if I no longer want to listen?”

“Then… that’s your decision. I’d respect it. But I know it must’ve taken a lot for you to trust me and I… hope you can again.”

“Potter,” Draco started, but faltered as he tried to determine the best way to proceed. The feeling of betrayal hadn’t quite dissipated enough to allow forgiveness. The distrust would take a while to soothe, but as he looked at Potter’s openly hopeful expression, Draco tried to work out what it was he wanted. Perhaps he _had_ been alone for long enough. Allowing Potter back into his life could be a mistake; there were certainly valid and sensible reasons why he should not. But Draco could also recognise that he was not entirely blameless for some of Potter's presumptions. The essence was this: Draco wanted Potter, despite the illogic of it all. And he suspected that the risk might be worth the trouble.

Struggling for the right words, trying for some semblance of a new start, Draco adapted a tried and tested route. 

“Welcome to Pear Tree Lodge, Harry. I hope we enjoy your stay. We're fully booked this evening, but I can still manage to accommodate you.”

As communication went, that was the best Draco could do for now. But he'd work on it. He hoped they both would.


End file.
